


Nothin' Sweeter Than My Baby

by WhenInDoubtSleep



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky lost his arm in a terrorist attack, Fluff, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers is a saint, Writer Bucky Barnes, kind of, mentioned alcoholism, mentioned drug use, mentioned past suicide attempt, so sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenInDoubtSleep/pseuds/WhenInDoubtSleep
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes wishes he had never dreamt of fire. The smell of ash and bone dust follows him everywhere, stuck inside his nose. He feels like an arsonist, watching his life fall victim to the terrible beauty.Bucky Barnes has been dubbed the greatest writer of his generation. After his PTSD and depression almost get the better of him, he moves back home to Brooklyn to try and find his love of both writing and living. Steve Rogers is an up and coming artist with a passion for literature. Maybe all of Bucky's dreams haven't come true yet after all.





	1. Hello, Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This work is is a collaboration for the Captain America Big Bang. Art by imhereforgaysuperheroes and Beta by aguacero-con-sol, dysphorie-by-the-sea, and everythingstucky.
> 
> So many thank yous to this wonderful team!  
**This will be updated every other day **
> 
> Follow My Tumblr!   
[AllTheStupid](https://allthestupid.tumblr.com/)
> 
> CW in notes below.

James Buchanan Barnes wishes he had never dreamt of fire. The smell of ash and bone dust follows him everywhere, stuck inside his nose. He feels like an arsonist, watching his life fall victim to the terrible beauty. 

There’s something about Brooklyn during the late summer, and Bucky stares at his hands, listening to his cab driver hum along to some four-chord pop song on the radio. It’s a catchy tune, the kind that sticks to the inside of his brain like bubblegum. It feels weird for him, returning to the city where he had grown up. His therapist had suggested going back home, connecting to his roots, trying to find his love of life and words again. 

He thought her suggestion was kind of bullshit, but nostalgia had been eating him up for weeks at that point, and maybe being back in Red Hook would soothe the restlessness that had made itself home inside his brain. He figures it’s worth a shot. 

The cab driver stops sharply, pressing the brakes too hard. Bucky hands the man some cash before getting out, pulling his suitcase out next and turning to look at the worn brick building looming above him. The stairs are miserable, and by the time he is standing inside his new fourth-floor apartment. He sighs, looking around at all of the empty space. He had never been very good at dealing with emptiness. 

Bucky Barnes is 28 years old, and he already feels like he’s living on borrowed time. He wanders through the rooms of his small apartment, taking everything in. The moving truck wouldn’t be by until later in the afternoon. There’s a slight haze in the room, dust having settled into the crevices.

The apartment is bigger than he had thought it would be, and he suddenly longs for the cramped studio that he had written his first novel in. The bed had practically been in the kitchen, and he used a milk crate for a bedside table. There was none of that simplicity now. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, drawing him out of his memories and back to the too-big living room that he stands in. 

“Hey, Ma,” he says, voice quiet. 

“James Barnes, I told you to text me when you got home,” his mother chastises, and he flinches at the hollowness that the word home left in his chest. When was the last time Bucky Barnes had felt at home?

“I literally just walked in, Ma. Stop worrying so much,” He tries for light, but his voice sounds flat. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen you, and the last six months were hard for me. You used to call every week, and then-”

“I know, Ma. I’m sorry,” he says, words hasty. He runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair. 

“Will you come for dinner?” Bucky waits a moment before answering. 

“I have to get my stuff into the apartment. Maybe we can do dinner in a couple of days when I’m settled? How’s Becca doing?” He asked, wanting to change the subject. 

“She’s real glad you’re back home in Brooklyn. She misses you, y’know. We all do. We all missed you when you went off to school. And it’s only gotten-”

“I know, Ma. I said I was sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I know it’s been a hard few years for you guys. I’ll come by for dinner on Friday, but I need the next few days to settle back into Brooklyn. It’s going to take some adjusting, and Maria said that I needed to make a place that’s all my own. Can I do that, Ma?” He asks, voice edging on desperate. Winifred remains quiet for a moment. 

“Of course you can, Bucky. I love you. We’ll have dinner at six. Don’t be late,” She says softly, and he nods. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma. I love you too. I’ll see you in a couple of days,” he says. He hangs up the phone and lets out a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut and walking to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and leaning over to drink directly from the spout. 

Bucky spends his afternoon helping the movers get all of his belongings into the apartment, slowly watching it fill up. He wonders when he had got this much stuff. By six o’clock, he had set up his bed frame and arranged all of the furniture, shoving anything he didn’t want to think about into the deepest corner of his bedroom, beneath the bed. 

He looks around the now cluttered space, dragging his eyes over the stacks of boxes. He needs to get out. 

He pulls his hair back into a messy bun, shoving his phone into his pocket and going outside. He sucks in a deep breath, reveling in the familiar scent and sound of Brooklyn. 

With a decisive first step, he walks to Rocky Sullivan’s, plopping down at the bar and thanking whatever god may be listening that the place is mostly empty. He needs a glass of bourbon to take the edge off.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks, smiling over at Bucky. Bucky nods, surveying the shelves.

“A glass of the best bourbon you have, thanks,” he drawls, offering up his credit card, “And you can open a tab, thanks,” he adds, watching the cute man walk away. He’s casual, wearing a threadbare purple t-shirt and skinny jeans. 

Bucky glances over the menu.

“My name’s Clint, by the way,” he adds after he walks back over, setting a glass down in front of Bucky, “I haven’t seen you in before. First time?” and Bucky chuckles, shaking his head.

“Nah, I grew up pretty close to here, and it was one of my favorite places to come when I was home for the summer in college. It’s been a few years though,” he explains, taking a sip of bourbon, his eyes falling closed as he savors the taste. 

“You back visiting then?” he asks, and Bucky shakes his head again, opening his eyes and looking over. 

“I just moved back, actually. When Brooklyn comes calling, you gotta answer,” he says, trying to sound casual (and probably failing), “Can I get a burger?”

“Sure thing. And don’t I know it. I knew the minute I stepped foot in Brooklyn that this place is special,” he says over his shoulder while he walks over to put in the order. 

“Well, I better get to see that pretty face again soon, in that case,” Clint adds, winking at him from the other side of the bar. Bucky’s cheeks flush a gentle shade of pink as he nurses his drink, trying not to finish it too quickly. 

A few minutes later, the door opens and a small group shuffles in, chatting happily. Bucky watches them from his corner seat at the bar, slouching further. They come right up to the bar, sitting down almost directly next to Bucky. Bucky gulps the rest of his drink, eyeing them warily. He stares down at the empty glass for a moment. 

“No no no. I swear to the lord, Nat. You cannot find em’ like that anymore,” the man seated in the middle says. The redheaded woman scoffs, rolling her eyes. 

“I sweat, Sam. Only you could get excited about antiquated technology,” her voice is smooth and low. Bucky watches them interact, cataloging each of them as they speak.

“You know damn well that isn’t true. Steve won’t get rid of his record collection. So, I bought a refurbished walkman. That doesn’t even put me on wonderbread’s level,” the first man, Sam, says. 

He’s lean with dark skin and buzzed hair. He smiles at the other two warmly, leaning an arm on the bar casually. His body language is open, and he wears a forest green polo and dark wash jeans. His voice cuts through hazy noise of radio and chatter in the room. He seems like the kind of man that is both charming and polarizing. He’s unabashed and bold. Bucky respects that. He had been that way once upon a time.

The small redheaded woman, Nat, is colder, calculating. She watches her friends with narrowed eyes, analyzes their answers. She speaks less frequently than Sam, but her words carry more weight. She seems to be keenly aware of the people around her.

The third man, Steve (wonderbread?) is tall, broad, and clean-cut. He’s wearing a blue plaid shirt buttoned all the way to the top and a pair of khakis. He grins at the other two, listening to them speak. His face is animated, and he filters through facial expressions rapidly, speaking less than the other two. When he does talk, it’s a thick Brooklyn drawl, much like Bucky’s own.

“Clint, My man! Why did it take so long?” Sam laments, grabbing his beer from Clint’s hand and taking a swig. Clint rolls his eyes before setting down a second beer and a tumbler of what looked like vodka (neat).

“Hey, Sam,” Clint says before turning his attention to Nat, leaning over the bar to press a kiss to her cheek, smiling fondly. Her composure slips for a brief second, softening under his gaze, “Hey, Nat,” Clint says, and she chuckles, taking a sip of her drink, “And Steve, of course. My three musketeers. How was work?” He asks, and they all give vague answers about their days. 

“Need another?” Clint asks then, turning his attention to Bucky.

“Please,” Bucky answers, smiling up at Clint gratefully. And then he catches the blonde’s eyes, holding his gaze. 

His blue eyes narrowing for a brief moment before realization lights up his features.

“Hi. This might be weird, but are you James Barnes?” he asks, and Bucky’s cheeks turn a violent shade of red. He doesn’t want to do this right now.

“Uh, yeah. I am,” he says a bit tersely.

“Wow, it’s an honor to meet you,” Steve says earnestly, flashing him a bright smile, “ _ Escaping Peace _ is stunning,” he adds seriously, nodding his head once as if to emphasize his point.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, taking a large gulp of his drink as soon as Clint sets it down in front of him.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just telling the truth,” he says, sipping at his beer, “Do you live here? I thought you lived in Chicago?” 

“I just moved back. I went to school at Northwestern,” Bucky explains, forcing a smile on his face, “But I decided it was time to move back home,” his hand tightens around the glass anxiously.

“Well, I didn’t mean to harass you or anything. My name’s Steve, by the way,” he says politely, and Bucky nods. 

“Nice to meet you,” Bucky says, thanking the waitress who sets a burger down in front of him. 

“I guess I should let you get to your dinner,” Steve says, smiling once more before turning his attention back to his friends. 

Bucky stares forward, eyes trained on the bar as he eats his burger as quickly as he can before heading back out into the crisp, early evening air. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to do with himself during the next couple of days. He has arranged and rearranged his bookshelves at least four times. 

He made soup because it was easy, and he spent hours sitting by the brick fireplace in his living room even though there was no fire going. He stares out the window. And, every once in a while, he glances at a notebook or his typewriter or his laptop, fingers itching in a way that only means his brain longs to put words to paper. 

He shuts it down every time, taking a shower or staring at the ceiling. He hasn’t felt so pathetic in a long while.

By the time Friday comes around, his chest is tight. He takes a cab to the brownstone that he had grown up in, lingering outside for a minute before going up to the door, hesitating before knocking. 

“Buckybear Barnes in the fucking flesh!” his younger sister yells as she swings the door open, beaming up at him.

“Funny, I thought I told you to stop calling me that,” he says, pulling his baby sister against his chest, “Beccabear,” he adds, kissing her temple chastely and allowing her to pull him inside. 

“Always so touchy, Buckybear. I missed you, asshole. God, you should come visit me for lunch sometime. I can show you my apartment! It’s absolute garbage; I love it,” Becca rambles, and Bucky follows her, smiling when his two youngest sisters appear in the entryway, screeching his name.

“Well, if it isn’t the terrible two,” he muses, pulling both twins in for a hug, “Wow, you two are so big!” he adds reverently, grinning down at them. 

“And you’re so small,” Alice says, raising her eyebrows, “Have you eaten anything in the last month? Mom is going to have a fit,” she says, poking him in the ribs with her elbow. 

Bucky’s cheeks heat up, and he crosses his arms over his chest, pulling away from the girls.

“No one asked you, Alice. Or you, Mary Grace,” he adds before the youngest Barnes child can get a word in. 

They both roll their eyes, changing the subject to talk about their respective summers. Bucky listens to their chatter, leading them towards the kitchen where his mother is. He dips down to kiss her cheek. 

“Hey, Ma,” he says softly, putting on his sweetest smile. 

“James, will you set the table?” She asks, turning to pull him in for a hug, “You ever leave this family for more than a year again, and I’m sending the girls to drag you home,” she adds with a pointed look, and Bucky just rolls his eyes, gathering plates and silverware. 

“I live back here now, Ma. If it’s been too long, you can go the ten blocks and drag me here yourself,” He reminds her, disappearing from the kitchen and setting everything on the table, watching his sisters bring out the food. 

He settles into the spot he had always occupied growing up, next to the empty head of the table. He glances over at the seat where his father had used to sit. 

The table is loud as ever, everyone talking over each other. Bucky sits there quietly, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips while he methodically eats his dinner. 

In the middle of the meal, Becca stands up. 

“I need some wine. Anyone want anything?” she asks, and the table falls silent. Winifred stares Becca down.

“Becca, no. Sit down. Your brother is healing, and it isn’t fair to him,” she says, a harsh edge to her voice. Bucky just shakes his head. 

“I don’t mind, really,” he argues, forcing a smile, “Go get some wine, Becs.” 

“Absolutely not. We discussed this. No alcohol in front of James,” She says, turning her gaze to her son. Bucky raises his eyebrows. 

“And James is saying that’s stupid. If the girls want wine, don’t stop them on my account. I don’t even drink wine,” he says, clenching his jaw. 

“Well, I’ve been doing research on alcoholism and drug addiction, and everyone says-”

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Ma. I’m not an alcoholic,” he snaps, curling his hands into fists. 

Becca looks between her brother and their Ma, “forget I said anything,” she says with a softer voice than she almost ever uses.

“No, go get some wine, Becs,” He says, but his voice is still cold, “I’m a big boy, and I can handle myself.”

“Bullshit,” Winnifred says, “We are not going to tempt you in this house, James Buchanan.”

“Tempting me with what, Ma?” he demands, “I’m not that fragile. You don’t have to tiptoe around me all the time. Becca is a grown-ass woman, and I think it’s well within her rights to drink a glass of wine with her dinner. It’s not like I’m going to steal it and drink the whole bottle and-”

“And what, James,” she challenges, and Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. 

Suddenly his vision is blurred. He looks down, pushing his broccoli around his plate. The silence is stifling, suffocating. When did it get so difficult to breathe?

He stands abruptly, storming to the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

He sinks to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest as tightly as he can manage. He tries to count his breaths like Maria had taught him. His mother’s words kept swirling around in his head over and over and over again. 

_ And what, James? And what? _

He can hear his pulse hammering in his throat, both flesh and metal hands shaking violently. He’s trapped. The cold tile floor feels like it’s burning. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Where is the air? Why can’t he breathe? 

He’s choking on nothing, his lungs begging desperately for relief. He forces his eyes open, scanning the room. 

_ 5 things, shower, rug, towel, toilet, sink. 4 things, Becca’s voice. Becca’s voice. Why can’t I hear anything but Becca? I can’t hear anything there isn’t- _

There’s a soft knock at the door. He flinches, his eyes snapping towards the doorknob. 

“Bucky? It’s Mary Grace,” she says softly, sounding almost frightened, “I’m sorry Ma freaked out like that. Can I come in?” She asks, and he shakes his head, still not trusting his voice. 

“Please, Buck. I’m worried,” she admits, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hesitating before lifting a shaking hand to unlock the door, shuffling away so that his baby sister can come inside. 

She locks the door behind her again, settling down beside him, pressed snuggly against his right side. 

“It was really scary. She’s just scared. They called and said that you might not make it, and we already lost dad…” she tries to explain, taking his hand and squeezing three times.

He nods, swallowing thickly. 

“And then they said you couldn’t talk because you were going away for a while, and we were so worried about you, Buck. We didn’t even know anything was wrong,” she points out, “We didn’t even know you were struggling. And then you were-”

“I get it,” He forces out, voice thick, “I fucked up. I get it, okay? I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. I know I fucked up. And I know I scared you all. And I’m doing my best, alright?” 

She just nods, leaning her head on his shoulder, “We just love you a whole lot. You’re our BuckyBear,” she whispers, and he nods, pulling her in for a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, eyes filling with tears. He tries to blink them back, “I wasn’t thinking. I was just so  _ tired _ ,” He tries to explain, sniffling. 

“I know, Buck. But you’re home, and you’re safe,” She promises, nudging him with her elbow, “Did Ma tell you that I changed my major?” she asks, and he shakes his head, looking down at her, “I decided that teaching wasn’t really for me. I switched to English,” She says it casually, and he tenses up. 

“Really? God,  _ why _ ?” He asks, scrunching up his nose, and she laughs, tossing her head back. 

“It was always my favorite subject. And maybe it runs in the family, the whole ‘best writer of our generation’ thing. And since we’re technically different generations-”

“You don’t want to be like me, May,” He argues, and she shrugs. 

“I’ve always wanted to be like you, though. You’re the strongest, smartest, coolest person I know. Sometimes I brag about you. I tell people that my big brother is a cyborg,” She says, grinning mischievously. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“Well, I tell people that my little sister is a little shit,” He counters, and she grins. 

“Aw, Bucky Barnes, are you tellin’ people about me?” She asks, batting her eyelashes dramatically, leaning in close. He chuckles, shaking his head. 

“God, I bet the boys are all over you. Next guy you go on a date with, tell him your strong, cool, smart, cyborg brother will crush his larynx if he tries anything funny,” and Mary Grace just nods, standing up. 

“C’mon, Ma made your favorite for dessert. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste,” she says, pulling Bucky up and opening the bathroom door, “Oh, and it isn’t me and the boys you should be worried about. It’s Alice that brings home a different guy every weekend,” she says wickedly, laughing at the flabbergasted look on her older brother’s face. 

After the disastrous family dinner, Bucky doesn’t leave his apartment for three days, lazing around and catching up on Netflix. It’s Sunday when Becca texts him with a reminder to eat before he wastes away. He stumbles into the kitchen, eating cold canned chicken noodle soup while grimacing. 

His session with Maria is on Monday afternoon, and he can tell by her tone that she is thoroughly annoyed with him. 

“Bucky, you are an alcoholic. We talked about this,” she says, tapping her manicured fingernails on her desk. 

“I am not an alcoholic. I have alcoholic tendencies was what you actually said. You said, ‘James, you are not technically an alcoholic, but you will be if you don’t figure out your shit. You are what we would call a problem drinker,” he says, crossing his arms, “Besides, we both know that my sister having a glass of wine isn’t going to unravel my delicate psyche,” he adds, and Maria nods slowly. 

“Yeah, I would be surprised if you suddenly lost it because of a glass of wine, but still. Your family is worried, James. You can’t be angry at your mom for worrying; It’s just because she loves you,” she reminds him, and he nods begrudgingly. 

“Yeah, I know. And I love them all, and I understand that I really fucked up. But I’m  _ trying _ . I’m working on it,” He whines, and Maria chuckles. 

“Cool, so now that we’re talking about progress,” Bucky groans, shaking his head, “You’re all moved into your apartment? Have you been working on your other steps?” she asks, and Bucky scrunches up his nose, shaking his head. 

“I know, I know. I’m supposed to be working on my list. It’s just hard, okay? It’s safer to stay in my bed and stare at the wall. I want to get better I just… want it to be easier? For me to get better?” 

“Don’t we all, James. Let’s start easy, okay? Tomorrow, I want you to find a bookstore or a library and pick out a book, any book that you think you’ll enjoy. Can you do that?” Bucky nods. 

“Yeah, I think I can do that.” 


	2. Like a Superhero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow Me On Tumblr: [AllTheStupid](https://allthestupid.tumblr.com/)
> 
> CW below

_ Bucky Barnes cannot escape the sharp tang of blood. It floods his mouth so quickly that he’s spitting crimson out onto the pavement. He clenches both fists, freezing when he realizes that he cannot feel his left arm. He looks over, face warmed by the angry fire a few feet away. _

_ He cannot feel his left arm. _

_ He cannot feel his left arm. _

_ He squeezes his eyes closed, pleading the ringing in his ears to stop. He can hear screaming, crying, the pleading whimpers of people nearby. He can still recall the deafening boom. He tries to push himself up. Wobbling and falling onto his right side. _

_ His eyes fly open, landing on his arm, five feet away and charred in the flames. He retches, throwing up more blood. _

Bucky wakes, a choked sob trapped in his throat. He’s clutching at the sheets tightly, his hands trembling. For a brief second, he can still see the flames dancing in the corner of his eye. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make the fire disappear. 

“Five things. The tv, my left hand, the bed, my blue sheets, my combat boots,” He forces out, forcing his eyes open and swallowing thickly, “Four things, the cars outside, people talking, my breathing, my heartbeat. Three things, the sheet, my metal hand, my t-shirt. Two things, sweat and… sweat? One thing. Blood” He says, forcing himself through his grounding exercise before staring at his silver hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. 

He still feels the ache in his shoulder some nights as if his body longs for what was once there. 

After a few minutes of staring, willing the tingling to go away (it doesn’t work), he gives up and turns on the TV, putting on some conspiracy documentary about aliens building the pyramids. 

“For fuck's sake, Barnes. Would it kill you to sleep without a nightmare for once,” he mutters to himself as the sun starts to rise over the Brooklyn cityscape outside his window. 

After eating a few slices of buttered, overcooked toast, Bucky pulls out his phone, looking up bookstores and scrolling through, clicking on a few before he decides on a smaller, privately-owned bookstore a few blocks away. He pulls on a flannel and a glove to cover up his left hand before pulling on his unwashed jeans from Friday. With a final glance at himself in the mirror, he shakes his head at himself, noting how disastrous he looks. His hair is unkempt, and his jaw is dotted with stubble. But he can’t be bothered to fix it, pulling his hair up into a bun. 

“Okay, Barnes. Let’s go pick a book,” he says to himself, grabbing for his keys and beginning the seven-block trek to the bookstore, endearingly named The Briar Patch.

He walks in, flinching at the bell that rings as he opens the door. It looks empty from what he can tell, and he pauses by the display at the front, surveying the books. 

“Hey, Welcome to the Briar Patch, is there anything I can help you with?” Someone calls from somewhere in the shelves, head popping out a minute later, “James?” 

And Bucky curses internally, shaking his head, “Yeah, hey Steve. How are you doing today?” He asks curiously, meandering closer, taking in the beaming blond. 

“I’m doing good, just organizing some books, y’know? What brings you here?” Bucky can’t understand how enthusiastic Steve seems to be all the time. He nods, looking around. 

“You work at a bookstore? I’ve gotta say, it isn’t exactly what I expected,” He admits, turning his attention to Steve and smiling sheepishly, “I figured you for a kindergarten teacher or like… a firefighter or something.” 

Steve laughs, hand moving to clutch at his chest, “A firefighter? Really?” 

“I dunno, you got the whole muscled and happy and protective thing going on,” Bucky teases, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to think about _ why _he had imagined what Mr. Tall, blond, and smiley did for a living. 

“Well, I was always a little justice hungry. I used to pick fights with people twice my size,” He admits, his cheeks warming slightly, “But uh, I definitely didn’t decide to pursue that professionally. And the bookstore is just part-time. Nick kind of took me under his wing when I was in college, and I started helping out and never left,” He rambles, blushing further, “Sorry,” 

“What’re you sorry for?” Bucky asks, hand moving to trail over the spines of some murder mystery novels. 

“Oh, uh. I was just rambling. Sometimes I talk too much,” he says, letting his eyes fall to the ground sheepishly. Bucky raises his eyebrows in question. 

“Whoever told you that is an asshole,” he says matter of factly, “You can talk as much as you want around me. It’s kind of endearing,” he says, surprised by his own words. He hadn’t made a real friend in over a year, having spent all of his treatment and most of his downward spiral pushing everyone in his life away. 

“Oh, uh… thanks, I guess,” Steve says, looking up, “So, do you know what you’re looking for or do you need some help? Or do you just want to browse?” Steve says, starting to ramble again. Bucky sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Pal, I haven’t had any idea what I’m looking for in a real long time,” he admits, light tone hopefully hiding the truth in his words, “I uh… I used to spend hours at my favorite book store in Chicago. I would sit in the stacks and lean against the shelves and read the back of everything,” the ghost of a smile haunts his lips. 

“There’s something special about bookstores,” Steve agrees. 

“Yeah, but I haven’t read anything in almost a year. And even then, it wasn’t real reading. Not because I wanted to be reading,” He says softly, “It’s uh… kind of embarrassing, I know. What kind of writer hasn’t picked up a book in eleven months? But then again, what kind of writer hasn’t written a word in fifteen months?” Bucky adds, almost bitterly. 

“Well, almost every writer I’ve ever known has had a problem writing,” Steve says, keeping his tone light, but concern lights up his eyes, “So you figured it was time to get back into reading then? Now that you’re back home?” 

“It’s part of my therapy regiment,” Bucky says honestly, his eye contact unwavering, “My therapist said that it was time I stop resenting the things that I used to love,” 

Steve’s eyes widen, and Bucky chuckles, apologizing under his breath.

“What are you sorry for?” Steve asks back, voice gentle. 

“Making it weird. People don’t usually want honest answers when they ask questions like that,” Bucky explains, suddenly wishing that his hair was down so he could mess with it, an unfortunate nervous habit he had adopted since growing it out. 

“Whoever made you feel like that is an asshole,” there’s a moment of silence before Steve continues, “I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t cared about the answer,” Steve says, smiling brightly, “Well, let’s find you a book. What do you like to read?” 

And then it’s Bucky’s turn to ramble as he explains all of the things he looks for in the perfect book. Steve listens intently, nodding and interjecting occasionally, and by the time Bucky is through, Steve is grabbing his wrist and leading him to a different part of the store. 

Steve speaks excitedly about certain novels as he pulls them from the shelves, ending up with four. He hands the pile to Bucky, grinning, “Okay, read the summaries for these and let me know if I’m on the right track,” he says happily. 

“Bucky nods, slowly dissecting the summaries on the back of each book, looking up at Steve with an expression of thinly veiled wonder. 

“You’ve known me for like 20 minutes, how are you so good at this?” He asks, only handing one of the books back to Steve, “These three sound amazing,”

“My Ma always said that I had good intuition,” Steve says, shrugging, “But like I said, I’ve been working here part-time since I was 20. So that’s eight years. You get the hang of it eventually,” he adds. 

“Well, I promise to report back after I’ve finished them. I feel like you’re on the ‘Bucky Barnes learns to love literature again’ train, and since you picked the books, it’s only fair,” He says, looking up at the blond. 

Steve’s eyes widen in the most beautiful way, and he smiles. 

“Bucky?” He asks, genuinely curious (and confused). 

“Oh, only my mom and my therapist and people who have never met me call me James,” He explains, cheeks flushing a soft pink shade, “I figured my literature guru gets to use the nickname. It’s uh… kind of how I separate people in my head? My friends and family call me Bucky because that’s who I am. Fans of my work and critics call me James because they don’t know me. It’s like an extra degree of separation. Like at least I got to keep my identity,” He explains, blushing further. 

“Like a superhero,” Steve says, smiling fondly, “Thanks for trusting me with your secret identity, Bucky,” Steve says it like he’s testing out the name in his mouth, “It suits you. How did that come about?” 

“Ah, that’s a third encounter kind of story,” Bucky says, smiling deviously, and Steve raises his eyebrows, obviously intrigued. 

“So I’ll definitely be seeing you again, then?” he says, and Bucky shrugs before he nods. 

“Well, I did promise a scintillating discussion about the three books in my hands. So yes, I’d say you get to see me again. Besides, you’re a regular at my favorite pub,” he reminds, and Steve nods. 

“Hey, speaking of which, how do you feel about trivia?” He asks, walking towards the counter, Bucky trailing behind him. 

“I was pretty decent when I was younger, why?” 

“Well, Rocky’s has trivia every Wednesday night, and tomorrow is literature trivia. And me, Nat and Sam need a fourth. I was wondering if you’d want to fill out the team,” he offers, looking nervous but hopeful. 

“Oh, uh… I don’t know your friends, and I don’t want to get in the way of your… thing,” Bucky says, a bit overwhelmed by the thought of being introduced into Steve’s friend group. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can tell that you and Nat will adore each other. And besides, I really want to win, and if I recall correctly, you studied English,” he says, grinning mischievously down at Bucky. Bucky laughs, nodding. 

“Yeah, Double majored in English literature and creative writing,” he said, and Steve grinned. 

“See, we could use your expertise. All of your drinks and food are on me. The winnings cover our tabs for the night and we’d each get a twenty-five dollar gift card,” He says, waggling his eyebrows, and Bucky nodded. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there,” He agrees, smiling easily. It feels almost foreign not to have to force it.

“Perfect!” Steve says triumphantly. The two stare at each other for a while before Steve’s eyes narrowed, “How adventurous of a reader are you?” He asks then, and Bucky frowns, shrugging. 

“I mean, I’ve obviously read a lot of different stuff. I’m not that picky, I just tend to gravitate towards the same kind of stuff,” He explains, setting his books down by the register. 

“Do you trust me?” Steve says over his shoulder, disappearing into the store once again. 

“I hardly know you, Steve!” He calls back, shaking his head. 

He waits there for a few minutes, taking the time to study the small bookstore. It is filled with dark wood bookshelves, and the displays are gorgeous, obviously painstakingly made by someone with a good eye for graphics. He looks up when Steve returns, holding another two books. 

“Okay, so here’s the thing. This is definitely not traditional literature, but I think it might be just different enough than what you’re used to for it to be easy to stomach,” He explains, setting down the books, looking at him hopefully, “They’re graphic novels. I love graphic novels. There’s something so gorgeous about the art and the storytelling, and I bet you’ll really like these two. They’re on me, so if you hate them, you aren’t out anything,” Steve rambles nervously. 

Bucky picks up the novels, narrowing his eyes. The first is titled Maus, and it catches his eye immediately, “Is this a Holocaust book?” Bucky questions, and Steve nods. 

“It is. It’s absolutely beautiful. Lots of gorgeous metaphor and art, and it’s one of my favorites. We read it in my freshman literature class at Columbia,” Steve explained. 

Bucky nodded before picking up the second book, taking in the cover. He didn’t know much about art, but he could tell that it was stunning. He nodded slowly, looking up at Steve, “A drunken Dream and Other Stories,” He says, repeating the title, and Steve nods. 

“Yeah, it’s technically an anthology. It has a few different stories. The art is-”

“Beautiful,” Bucky agrees, and nods. 

“I look forward to hearing about all five of the books, but these two specifically. These are right up my street, and if you like them, I have just about a million other graphic novel recommendations,” Steve speaks excitedly, and Bucky can’t help but smile wider. 

“Well, I look forward to reading them. And then maybe you can tell me about the art? You seem excited about the art,” and Steve nods, blushing so deeply that the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Bucky briefly wonders how low the blush goes. 

“Yeah, uh… I studied art in college,” he says, and Bucky whistles, impressed. He had never been any good at art. He couldn’t get anything to look the way that it did in his head. 

“So you’re an artist, then?” Bucky asks, and Steve shrugs. 

“Yeah, I guess. But don’t ask to see any of my work. That’s third encounter stuff at the _ very _ least,” Steve says, and for a second, Bucky almost thinks that he might be flirting. 

“So tomorrow night then?” Bucky asks, raising his eyebrows, and Steve hums thoughtfully before leaning in close to Bucky. 

“Nah, maybe it’s like… fourth or fifth encounter,” he whispers conspiratorially, “But I’ll let you in on a secret,” He adds, leaning in closer, breath tickling at Bucky’s ear, “I think this is the second of many encounters,” 

Bucky nods, swallowing thickly and pulling out his wallet. 

“I certainly hope so,” He says, still surprising himself. The thought of Steve wanting to see him again warms his chest. He pays for the three novels, annoyed when Steve refuses to charge him for the graphic novels. He watches steve grab a bookmark (it has the Briar Patch’s logo on it, and Bucky wonders if the art is Steve’s). Steve has broad hands and long fingers which look vaguely calloused, and suddenly a scene is playing out in his head. 

He imagines Steve Rogers leaning over a canvas, his blond hair splayed across his forehead which is furrowed in concentration. There’s a paintbrush between his teeth and a small stripe of electric blue paint on his left cheek outlining his cheekbone. There’s soft light filtering through a nearby bay window. He’s at peace. He’s beautiful. 

When Steve snaps the book shut, Bucky jumps, snapping out of his daydream. He smiles sheepishly, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

“So, trivia is at 7. I’ll let them know you’re joining us. Just a heads up, they can be kind of a lot, but they’re really amazing people,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, dragging his eyes up, making eye contact with the taller man in front of him, “My number’s on the bookmark… let me know if you need anything,”

Bucky takes the bag gingerly, practically cradling them to his chest for a moment as if they are something precious. Steve gives him a curious smile.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there. Have a nice rest of your day,” he offers, giving Steve a sloppy salute before exiting the shop, turning to glance over his shoulder, catching Steve’s eye from behind the window. Steve sends him a salute right back (the kind of uniform salute that a military man would have), and Bucky laughs. 

It’s the kind of laugh that comes from deep in his chest, and he can’t remember the last time he really felt happy until now. He shakes his head, switching the bag to his metal arm before beginning the trek back to his apartment. 

_ What a good day for reading _, he thinks, smiling to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> nightmares (mentions of explosions/Bucky's arm)


	3. The Secret Weapon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are my lifeblood, so if you like it, let me know!
> 
> CW In the Notes at the end

Bucky had paced his bedroom for almost an hour, eyes darting to the closet every few seconds. He doesn’t know what to wear. He wants to make a good impression on Steve’s friends, but he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard. Eventually, he settles on a pair of dark wash skinny jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He even showered and dried his hair, leaving down.

He leaves his apartment with enough time to get to the bar 15 minutes before trivia is set to begin. When he enters Rocky’s, his eyes widened. It’s loud, and there were tables set up, each had four people sitting around it. He looks around, trying to spot Steve, but it’s Natasha who catches his eye, her red hair glinting in the low light. 

He walks over, trying to control his breathing. When Steve notices him, he beams, standing up and waving. Bucky chuckles at his enthusiasm, shaking his head. 

“You didn’t have to stand up,” He teases, and Steve shrugs, sitting back down. The seat across from him is empty, and Bucky sits down, turning to look at Natasha. 

“Guys, this is Bucky,” Steve supplies, and Sam takes a swig from his beer before speaking. 

“Nice, the secret weapon is here,” He says, laughing at his own joke. Bucky’s cheeks flush a soft pink color. 

“It’s nice to meet you, James,” Natasha says then, offering her hand. Bucky shakes it, smiling at her, “I’m Natasha,” 

“Pleasure,” he says, listening to Steve and Sam talk over each other while explaining how Rocky’s ran trivia night. The two men play off of each other well, cracking jokes and finishing each others’ sentences. 

“Beer!” Steve says suddenly, sitting up, “What do you drink? Do you like beer or something else?” he asks. Bucky smiles. 

“I usually drink bourbon, but I’ve gotta stay sharp if I’m gonna be the secret weapon. Beer is fine,” he says, and Steve jogs over to the bar where Clint is busy pouring drinks. 

“So, Steven seems quite taken with you,” Natasha says as soon as Steve is out of earshot. Bucky frowns, turning to give her a slow, wary once over. 

“That seems like quite the exaggeration. We’ve met twice. Once, really,” He points out, but she just shrugs. 

“Well, once is enough to have made quite the impression, James,” she says, and Bucky thinks this might be teasing. He can’t be sure. 

When Steve returns, he sets down a dark beer in front of Bucky. 

“Alright, let’s kick some ass,” Steve says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Take some names,” Sam adds.

“Win some alcohol,” Natasha finishes. Bucky’s eyes widen. 

“Cheers,” He mumbles, and they all lift their beers, each taking a drink. 

And then they begin. 

The first round is European literature, and Bucky is an absolute all-star. Every question that gets asked, he knows the answer. It gets to the point where Sam and Natasha sit quietly, watching him immediately answer question after question. 

When the round wraps up, their team is in the lead with a perfect score. 

“God damn, Barnes isn’t a secret weapon. He’s a fucking atomic bomb!” Sam exclaims, impressed. Bucky shakes his head. 

“Nah, I just took a lot of lit classes in college. It’s not even helpful knowledge to have,”

“Bullshit, that not-so-useless knowledge is buying me some vodka,” Natasha argued, and Steve just watches them interact, a hopeful smile on his face. 

Round two is fantasy, and Bucky is significantly less useful. He knows the answers to a question about Tolkien and another about Harry Potter, but this round is mostly up to Sam and Steve. 

When that round wraps, they no longer have a perfect score, but they are still ahead by quite a few points. They had been playing for half an hour now, and the host announced a ten-minute break before the final round. 

“More beers!” Sam declares, standing. Steve gets up with him, and they leave for the bar, bantering comfortably. 

“They know each other really well,” Bucky notes, and Natasha nods, smirking. 

“Yeah, those two idiots are platonic soulmates. They’re the exact same brand of stupid, and it’s absolutely hilarious,” She says, turning to look at Bucky, “And what about you, do you want to know Steve well?” She asks, and Bucky’s cheeks flare red. 

“I mean, yeah, I guess. He’s nice. We get along well enough so far, I think,” he stammers, trying to get coherent sentences out. 

“Well, I think he would like to get to know you. He can be shy sometimes; it’s left over from when he was a teenager. I hope you understand what an honor it is to have his attention,” she says, and Bucky just nods, relieved when Steve and Sam return with a new round of drinks. 

Steve offers him a glass, and Bucky raised his eyebrows. 

“I think you’ll still be sharp with a bit of whiskey in your system,” Steve teases, and Bucky grins, taking a sip. His eyes flutter shut as the taste floods his mouth. He hums appreciatively, opening his eyes and looking over at Steve, beaming. 

“Thanks, Steve,” He muses, and the blond just nods. 

“What did you two get up to while we were gone?” Sam asks, and Natasha shrugs, a lazy smile gracing her lips. 

“Just chatting. James here has quite a way with words,” she teases, nudging him with her elbow. Bucky blushes, looking down at his drink. 

“And we’re back! Thanks for letting me take a piss,” the host Wade exclaims, “This last round is Great American Authors and Novels cuz...Go ‘Merica, I guess. Although, I’m Canadian, so really fuck you guys,” he jokes, and Bucky laughs, covering his mouth. 

“Alright, question one. What is Upton Sinclair’s most famous book?” 

“The Jungle,” Bucky says right away, sipping his bourbon after. Sam chuckles, writing it down on their tablet and submitting the answer. 

“That’s the one about the meatpacking plant?” Natasha confirms, and Bucky nods. 

“Next question, which American author won a Nobel prize in 1930,” Wade says, and Bucky pauses, trying to think back. 

“Um…”

“Sinclair Lewis,” Natasha supplies, smirking over at Bucky, “Step it up, Barnes,” 

Steve laughs, kicking Bucky gently underneath the table. 

“Question three! Who wrote  _ cat’s cradle  _ and  _ slaughterhouse-five _ ?”

“Kurt Vonnegut!” Steve says excitedly, “Slaughterhouse-Five is amazing,” He adds, and Bucky agrees.

Bucky looks at the stage, smiling to himself at their lead. 

“This next one is a quote. We want title and author,” Wade begins, scanning the tables before speaking again, “There is nothing quite like the sensation of drowning. There is an unshakeable body of water in each of us, and maybe someday we will all forget how to breathe,” and suddenly Bucky’s eyes are trained on the table. He doesn’t want to look up. Steve clears his throat before speaking. 

“That’s from  _ Escaping Peace _ by James Barnes,” Steve says, his words soft. Bucky glances up at him, nodding once. Sam jots it down as Bucky gulps down the rest of his drink, setting down the empty glass. He doesn’t pay much attention to the next few rounds, answering before immediately spacing out again. 

“Alright, the final question of the night! Who wrote  _ Tender is the Night _ ?” 

“F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was an ass though, and I personally prefer Zelda’s  _ Save Me the Waltz _ ,” Bucky says, chuckling, “Fitzgerald wasn’t even that good. And people always compare me to him like it’s supposed to be a compliment. I don’t want to have anything in common with him,” Bucky rants annoyedly, cheeks an angry shade of red. 

“I didn’t think your book was anything like Fitzgerald. Who says that?” Steve demands, frowning. Bucky looks up, meeting his eyes and noting the gentle concern there.

“Lots of critics. The 21st century’s F. Scott. Fitzgerald,” He says, scoffing. Wade comes back on stage then. 

“Alright alright alright. Our winners are scary good at this shit. With a near-perfect score of 2700 points, our winners are The Avengers, which is a dumbass name. Come get your gift cards, and we’ll settle your tabs,” Wade says before spouting off the information about the next trivia night. 

“All thanks to Buckeroo here. Thanks, man. I can’t wait to drink three whole beers for free,” Sam says, winking. Steve laughs, clutching at his chest. 

They all stand up, walking over to where Wade is. He hands them each a gift card and asks for their names so he can settle their tabs. The three friends chat for a few moments, Bucky lingering next to Natasha. 

“No no no, you don’t get to dip out on Thursday night drinks, Steven Grant. It’s tradition, and Bucky’ll be there, right?” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky frowns, eyes snapping to Sam. 

“Where?” 

“Here. We come for drinks after work every Thursday. You have to come celebrate our win with us,” Sam says seriously, and Bucky nods slowly. 

“Yeah, sure,” He agrees, forcing a small smile. 

“Ugh, fine. But if Nick wants to gut me for closing the store early, it’s on you,” Steve says seriously, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

“Well, I’ve gotta head home. Early morning tomorrow. We still on for our run, Steve?” Sam asks, shoving Steve’s shoulder. 

“We run every day,” Steve points out, rolling his eyes, “of course we’re still on. Now get out of here before Riley worries that you’re drunk in a dumpster somewhere,” 

“It was one time, man. Give it a rest,” he says with a wink over his shoulder, heading towards the door. 

Natasha turns to Bucky then. 

“Tonight was fun. Don’t be a stranger, Barnes,” she smirks, “Have a nice night, both of you. I’m off to harass my husband,” she says, turning around gracefully and sauntering over to the bar. 

“And then there were two,” Steve murmurs, smiling down at Bucky, “How are you getting home?” Steve asks suddenly, and Bucky is surprised. 

“I’m walking,” he says, and Steve nodded. 

“You live close by?” He asks, and Bucky nods, telling Steve which cross street he lived on. Steve grins. 

“No way, that’s on my way. Mind if I walk with you? I drove, but I had a few beers, and it’s better safe than paying hundreds of dollars for a DUI,” he says, and Bucky nods dumbly, starting towards the door. 

Bucky holds the door open for Steve and then they are out in the crisp night air. 

“What kind of weirdo has a car in Brooklyn?” He asks, glancing over at the taller man. 

“Plenty of people own cars in Brooklyn, Bucky. Not all of us want to rely on public transportation all the time,” he says seriously, and Bucky just rolls his eyes. 

“I usually walk or take a cab,” 

“What, you rich? Cabs are expensive,” Steve argued. 

“And car insurance isn’t?” Bucky counters. Steve remains quiet for a moment, grinning down at his shoes. 

“Touche,” He finally says, their shoulders bumping as they walk, “I had fun tonight. I hope you did too. I’m sorry about-”

“I did. Have fun,” Bucky cuts him off. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and surprisingly, Steve lets it go, “I read Maus this afternoon. It was really good,” he says then, and Steve’s face lights up. 

“Isn’t it? One of the best things I’ve ever read. There’s another one. I’ll have to get it for you,” he says, and Bucky laughs. 

“I can get it myself, Steve. You don’t have to buy me books,” Steve shrugs. 

“I get a really good discount, and I don’t have any other friends who like books. Not like I do… not like you do,” He says the words carefully, and Bucky blushes, looking down. The two men walk in step with each other. 

“Well, some time maybe we can hang out and talk about it? I’d like to hear your thoughts,” Bucky offers, and Steve nods. 

“Yes! I have lots of thoughts,” He says, and Bucky nudges him with his elbow, laughing. 

“What, you mean there’s something going on between those ears of yours?” He teases, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off,” He says, but the words are fond. 

They settle into a comfortable silence while they walk, the sounds of the city enveloping them. 

“So…” Bucky starts, cringing at how awkward he sounds, “Um, maybe we could like… grab a coffee or something? Talk about Maus?” He sounds small, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. 

“Yeah, Buck. I’d like that,” Steve responds almost instantly, “When are you free?” 

“Well, I don’t have a job,” He points out, cheeks warming at the admission, “So I’m free pretty much always except for when I’m having dinner with my family,” he explains, glancing over at Steve. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” Steve says, but Bucky just shakes his head. 

“Don’t be. I still get paid every month, and we just started talking about movie rights, but I’m nervous about trusting anyone with my story, y’know?” Bucky rambles, and Steve nods. 

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be scary. That’s cool though,” he adds, and Bucky laughs, shrugging. 

“It’s flattering, I guess. But it’s weird,” he explains, “I can’t really imagine seeing it. In a theatre. And god, I just  _ know  _ that they’d ruin it. But the numbers they’re throwing around are pretty fucking impressive. It’s hard to say no to,” he admits, looking over at Steve curiously, “What kind of art do you do?” 

Steve grins, “A little bit of everything, honestly. I love acrylics and watercolor, but I also do some more commercial art too,” he says, “Art was my first love,” he chuckles, “Which is incredibly dorky,” 

“That’s okay, I happen to like dorks,” their shoulders brush.

“Is that so?” Steve questions and Bucky nods, looking down at his feet. He likes Steve way more than he should, and it makes him feel both giddy and utterly terrified. 

“Yeah,” is all Bucky says, letting the silence settle around them again. A minute later, they are standing outside his apartment building. Bucky stands there, staring at his shoes. 

“Thanks. For inviting me out tonight. I don’t exactly have very many friends,” he says, glancing up at Steve briefly. 

“Well, you have me,” Steve points out, sounding as cheerful as ever, “And like I said, I see many encounters in our future,”

“What, you a psychic?” Bucky teases, a small smile gracing his face. 

“Hmmm, psychic? No. Optimistic? Definitely. Tell me to fuck off, and you never have to see me again,” Steve finishes earnestly, and Bucky shakes his head. 

“Now, why would I do that?” he laughs a little, “I look forward to coffee,” he adds.

“Right! So I work tomorrow, and I get off at 5, but I have a deadline, and I’m behind, so I have to deal with that. We can do like… this weekend? If you want?” 

Bucky nods, “Yeah, this weekend sounds good,” 

It’s awkward, and Bucky doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. He looks up at Steve, lips pursed, and the blonde chuckles. 

“Well, I’ll let you head upstairs,” Steve says, flashing his blinding smile, “And I’ll see you on Thursday, yeah? For Thursday night drinks?” 

“I told Sam I’d be there,” Bucky reminds, and Steve nods again, “I’ll see you. On Thursday. Thanks again, Steve. I had a good time,” he says, and Steve watches Bucky ascend the stairs and disappear into the building.

He falls asleep earlier than usual, curled up in bed with a small smile on his face. 

Thursday is happening before Bucky knows it, and he is pacing his living room, unsure of what to do. He likes Sam and Natasha and Steve. He thinks they’re funny and cool and intelligent, and it has been so long since he had any friends. 

He is certain that he’s going to fuck it up. 

At 4:30, he finally stops pacing, stomping into his bedroom and staring at his closet. He groans in annoyance, looking through his clothes. Eventually, he pulls on a soft green sweater and a pair of jeans, putting his leather gloves on immediately after. 

He wanders through the apartment for another short while before leaving, jogging down the staircase and out onto the street. 

He’s there before everyone else, and he strides up to the bar, slipping into a stool and sighing, pulling out his phone to check the time. 

“Hey, Buck! Bourbon?” Clint asks, already reaching for the bottle. Bucky just nods, giving him a grateful smile, “Here ya go,” 

“Thanks, Clint. How has your day been?” Bucky asks, and Clint shrugs, leaning against the bar. 

“You know how it is. Normal, boring,” he says, and Bucky chuckles.

“Oh, trust me. I get that,” Bucky agrees, sipping his drink, “What do you do during the day?” He asks curiously, and Clint grins. 

“Well, I work until real late. So I usually sleep in until like… noon. And then I take Lucky for a walk, he’s our dog,” Clint explains before going through the rest of his daily schedule, “And mostly, on days we both work, I just miss Nat like hell,” He adds, a goofy smile on his face. 

“That’s cute,” Bucky says, and before he gets the chance to say anything else, the door opens and in comes the crowd. Bucky looks over his shoulder, taking them in. They’re walking close together, shoulder to shoulder. 

“You two are insane,” Natasha says before walking up to the bar, leaning over and kissing Clint’s cheek, “Hey babe,” She speaks quieter, face softening in the way that it only ever does when she looks at her husband. 

“Hey, James. How was your day?” She asks then, slipping into the barstool beside his. Bucky shrugs, smiling politely. 

“It was normal. Boring,” he says, turning to look at Steve and Sam over his shoulder. 

Sam saunters over, throwing an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. 

“Hey, Buckaroo. You look good,” He compliments, and Bucky laughs nervously, shaking his head. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” He responds, taking another drink of his bourbon, “Hey, Steve,” He says then, his voice softens a bit. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says cheerfully, sitting on his other side. As soon as he sits down, Clint slides a beer in front of him, and Steve smiles, taking a large gulp. 

Sam grabs his own beer, and sits down beside Natasha, leaving Bucky cold. He sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Hey,” Steve says, voice soft, “You okay?” he whispers the words, leaning in close to Bucky’s ear. Bucky nods, swallowing thickly and smiling at Steve. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” He assures, taking a swig of his bourbon. He sighs, “So, how was work?” Bucky asks them, turning his attention to Sam and Natasha. He doesn’t actually know what either of them do. 

“It was good, heavy stuff. I work down at the VA,” Sam explains, and bucky hums thoughtfully.

“Did you serve?” He asks a moment later, and Sam nods, smiling softly. 

“Two tours. Pararescue,” He explains, and Bucky nods.

“Thanks. For your service. That’s really cool. I thought about it… when I graduated high school. But then… it didn’t pan out,” He explains, smiling.

Sam laughs, shaking his head and mumbling something about not needing to be thanked. 

“Work was dull,” Natasha says suddenly, glancing over at Bucky, “I’m a choreographer,” she explains, smirking, “I danced professionally until I was 26,” 

“Nat’s the best dancer in the entire world,” Clint muses, grinning at her, and she just rolls her eyes. 

“I got injured, and so I switched to choreographing and teaching,” She explains, and Bucky nods. He could see it, then. Her stunning grace and ease of movement. It makes so much sense. 

“And what about you?” Bucky asks, turning to look at Steve. Steve shrugs. 

“Y’know. Another day, sold some books,” he says offhandedly, “I have to do some work tonight,” He’s smiling, “I had to close the shop early, but it’s whatever. Nick wasn’t mad. This kid, Peter, usually works on Thursday nights, but he had a biology test,” Steve explains, and Sam laughs. 

“God, look at you. Couldn’t you hire another employee?” Sam asks, and Steve shrugs, nodding once. 

“Yeah, I could. But I like it,” Steve reminds him. 

“Yeah, yeah. The books are your friends, I know,” Sam counters and Bucky smiles at that, giving Steve a once over. 

“Books are friends?” he asks, and Steve blushes, looking down at his hands. 

“Yeah, the books are like my friends. They don’t pester me like these ones,” Steve says, eyes narrowing in Sam and Natasha’s direction. 

“You love us,” Natasha reminds, and Steve just nods once. 

The conversation flourishes after that, the four of them talking excitedly. They let Bucky learn more about them all, and almost two hours later, Sam stands up. 

“I love you all, but Riley is going to be pissed if I miss dinner,” he says, smiling down at them all, “I’ll see you guys Tuesday?” He asks, and they all nod, “See you in the morning, Steve,” he reminds pointedly before leaving the bar. 

Steve sighs, looking at his watch, “Yeah, I should head off, too,” he stands up. Bucky stands too, as soon as Steve does, looking up at him briefly before turning to Natasha. 

“Hey, Nat, have a good night, yeah?” Bucky says, and she nods, standing herself and leaning up to kiss Bucky on the cheek. She does the same to Steve before sitting back down. 

“You too, James. I’ll see you both soon. Have a good weekend,” she then turns her attention back to watching Clint pour drinks. 

Bucky nods, turning and walking towards the door, Steve next to him. Once they are standing outside, Steve smiles, clearing his throat. 

“Do you, uh, want a ride?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. Bucky looks up, surprised by the offer. 

“Oh, uh-”

“I mean, it’s on my way, and it’s not a big deal,” he reminds quickly, and Bucky nods, smiling. 

“Yeah. That would be great. You only had one beer, right?” Bucky makes sure, and Steve nods. 

“One beer, an hour and a half ago. I’m all good, I promise,” he assures, leading Bucky down the street a bit, “Oh, I guess I should have asked if you feel comfortable with motorcycles,” he adds casually, stopping in front of a beautiful black bike. 

Bucky’s eyes widen, but he nods. That explains the leather jacket, then. Steve offers him a helmet, putting on a pair of glasses. 

“So, uh. I’ll get on. And then you. You can, uh, hold on to me,” he says dumbly, cheeks flushed pink, “Just don’t let go. We’ll be to yours before you know it,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, pulling the helmet on before getting behind Steve on the bike, wrapping his arms around Steve’s midsection. 

The ride is exhilarating. He can feel the wind whip around them while they move, and he can feel the flex of Steve’s muscles under his forearms. It feels kind of like flying, and he never wants it to end. 

A couple of minutes later, Steve pulls over outside his place. Bucky stays latched to his abdomen for a second before pulling back and taking off the helmet, smiling up at him. 

“That was amazing,” he says seriously. 

“We can do it again sometime, go on a longer drive,” Steve offers, and Bucky nods immediately, leaping at the opportunity. 

They sit for a moment, quietly before Bucky dismounts, looking down at Steve with a shy smile, “Thanks. For the ride,” he says quietly, and Steve nods, muttering a ‘no problem’. 

“Hey… do you like tea?” he asks, suddenly, surprising himself. He cringes at his nervous tone of voice, but Steve just peers up at him curiously.

“Yeah, I like tea,” he says, and Bucky crosses his arms awkwardly. 

“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come up? Have a cup?” he offers, biting his bottom lip anxiously. Steve looks shocked at the question, but he gets off the bike.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” he says, taking the helmet from Bucky and tucking it under his arm, “lead the way,” he prompts, and Bucky turns on his heels and goes inside, walking up the few floors and unlocking his apartment, holding the door for Steve. 

He flicks on the living room lights, looking around his own apartment. There are three bookshelves, stuffed full, but other than that, it’s pretty plain. Steve looks around, intrigued. 

“What kind of tea do you like?” Bucky asks him, putting the kettle on before opening the tea cabinet, pulling down a bag of English breakfast for himself. 

“Got any green tea?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods, grabbing a bag and then rummaging for a couple of mugs. 

“Your apartment is nice,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs, shaking his head. 

“My apartment is boring,” he argues, leaning against his kitchen counter, quirking his eyebrow. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s kind of baren, but some people like that,” Steve argues, smiling, “And didn’t you just move in a few weeks ago?” Bucky shrugs, smiling. 

When the kettle is hot, he pours them each a cup, offering Steve his tea. He puts two sugars into his own cup, one that reads  _ Write Drunk. Edit Sober _ , stirring it in and taking off his gloves without thinking. 

He hums softly to himself, pulling his hair up into a ponytail. He freezes then, catching Steve’s eye. He had been staring at Bucky’s exposed left hand, the silver metal glinting in the light. 

“Oh, sorry,” Bucky mutters, cheeks turning a violent shade of red. He reaches for his gloves, but Steve’s hand shoots out, catching his right wrist. 

“No, you don’t have to do that. I’m sorry I was staring. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says earnestly, and Bucky lets out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. 

“It’s all good. Most people stare,” he admits, scooping up his tea and going into the living room, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Steve is following him. He sits down on the couch, sipping his tea. 

When Steve sits down next to him, he sighs, shaking his head. 

“I was, uh...18 years old,” he starts quietly, staring down at his cup. 

“Buck, you don’t have to-”

“It was my senior year of high school, and my dad and I had gone into New York for the day. Just lunch and hanging out. We were celebrating my birthday,” Bucky’s voice was tight as he spoke, “Um, it was uh… not the best time y’know. We were near Grand Central Station,” he adds, swallowing thickly, “Do you remember the Hydra attacks?” He asks, and Steve nods. 

“Yeah, that homegrown terrorist group,” Steve says, and Bucky lets out a shaky sigh. 

“When the first bomb went off, my dad… he was in the army. He was retired at that point, but he wasn’t gonna just leave them there, y’know. So we went to help get survivors to safety,” Bucky explains, voice barely above a whisper. 

He didn’t know how to say the rest of it. He had never been good at talking about it, and he still struggled to even say anything about the event to Maria. 

“There was a second wave. Dad died, and I lost my arm,” he forces out before taking a large gulp of his tea, closing his eyes and relishing the searing heat in his throat. Steve sits there quietly for a moment before he reaches out, hand resting on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says quietly, and Bucky shrugs, glancing over at him. 

“That’s life,” he says, chuckling sardonically, forcing himself to appear unaffected as he continues, “My dad. After he left the military, he worked for Howard Stark. They had been working on state of the art prosthetics. He and Tony let me have the first one. It was a prototype, and it kind of sucked, but a few upgrades later… it’s basically like having a normal arm. Aside from the whole metal thing,” he says, shrugging. 

“Can I…” Steve trails off, fingers outstretched in the direction of his hand. Bucky pushes up his sleeve, his forearm glinting in the lamplight. 

“Go ahead,” he invites, and Steve’s fingers trace the metal plate at his wrist, trailing down over his palm. Bucky shivers, flexing his fingers. 

“You can feel that?” Steve asks, astonished. Bucky laughs, nodding. 

“Yeah, that’s pretty new. It’s hooked up to my spine. They did something with my nerves… I can feel pressure and temperature,” he explains, “And if it got ripped off, it would hurt like hell. It’s like… dull feeling. Kind of like if I had a normal arm with nerve damage,” he tries to explain, and Steve nods, tracing the divets in the metal. 

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says, looking up at Bucky earnestly, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. But it’s… kind of amazing,” he says, and Bucky nods in agreement. 

“Yeah, it’s really cool,” he agrees, sipping his tea again, “So, uh… how’s that for a sob story. Sorry, I ruined the mood,” he says with a small laugh, trying for light. 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Steve assures him, hand moving away from Bucky’s arm, “But, if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear how you got Bucky,” he prompts softly. 

Bucky groans, shaking his head. 

“It’s not even a good story, Steve. When I was a kid, my little sister Becca, she’s five years younger than I am. She couldn’t say James or Buchanan, so when she started talking, she called me Bucky. It stuck, and now that’s pretty much all anyone ever calls me,” he says, chuckling. 

“So you have a younger sister then? Is that it?” Steve asks, and Bucky shakes his head. 

“Nah, Becs is 23, and I then there are the twins. They’re almost 20,” he explains, “So it’s us four and my Ma,” 

“Wow, what’s that like? Having a big family?” Steve asks, and Bucky laughs, shrugging. 

“Well, I’m probably the wrong one to ask. Rebecca was only 13 when I went to college, so I’ve been alone a lot longer than the other three have,” he informs, smiling, “They’re all really great. Becca just started Med school, Alice is studying mechanical engineering, and Mary Grace is studying English,” he says, looking up at Steve, “What about you, any siblings?” 

Steve shakes his head, “Nope. Just me. My dad passed away before I was born, and my Ma passed when I was 19,” he says softly, shrugging once, “So it’s pretty quiet. Like I said in the bookstore, Nick kind of took me in when I was in college. He’s the closest thing I have to family,” he explains, and Bucky nods. 

“I’m sorry about your parents,” he says softly, and Steve shakes his head, smiling sadly. 

“It happens,” Steve says, sipping his tea, “It’s not easy, but it is what it is,” 

“You should come have dinner with me and the girls some time,” Bucky blurts out before thinking about the offer. He blushes, chuckling nervously, “I mean, it might be nice. My Ma would absolutely adore you, and the girls are great. And honestly, I think maybe they’d stop worrying so much if they knew I had friends,” He tries to explain, but Steve is just staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, I’d love that,” he says quietly, and Bucky stares back, surprised.

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I eat frozen meals most of the time because I can’t cook for shit. It would be nice to have a home-cooked meal that I didn’t steal from Sam and Riley,” Steve admits, looking down at his cup, smiling.

“Frozen meals? Honestly, Steve. How have you been surviving without me,” Bucky teases, and Steve’s eyes snap up, focusing on Bucky’s. There is a quiet sort of intensity there. They stare at each other for a moment, both completely silent. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, finally, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Bucky laughs breathlessly, finishing his tea before setting the mug aside. 

“Thank you,” he says then, completely serious. 

“I didn’t do anything. Why are you thanking me?” Steve asks, and bucky just shakes his head, unsure of how to explain the way that Steve had already done so much for him. 

He thinks about the sinking emptiness that he had felt in his chest for years, and the way that he feels fuller now. He looks forward to seeing Steve, and hearing him gush about random little things that he was passionate about. He looks forward to seeing Steve smile or laugh. He thinks about the way that Steve’s cheeks turn a soft pink shade whenever he’s embarrassed. 

“Because you uh… I don’t know,” he says instead, looking down at his lap, “I’m just really glad that I met you,” He offers instead, glancing up at Steve who is staring at him with a funny look on his face. Bucky can’t decipher what the taller man is thinking. It startles Bucky more than it should.

“I’m glad I met you too,” he says finally, taking a sip of his tea. 

They sit quietly for a while, Steve sipping at his tea. When he finishes, he stands, grabbing both mugs and walking to the kitchen, washing them both while he hums to himself. Bucky follows him, lingering a few feet away and watching him curiously. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” He points out, and Steve grins over his shoulder, shrugging. 

“I know, but I wanted to. Thanks, for the tea. And for coming to drinks,” He offers, wiping his hands off on his jeans before walking over to Bucky, “And thanks for telling me… about your arm,” his voice is softer then. 

Bucky nods, looking up at him from under his eyelashes, “Thanks for listening. I’ll uh...text you? We still need to get coffee,” He reminds, and Steve nods, smiling down at him. 

“I look forward to it, but I really have to go now, or I’m going to miss my deadline and my editor will kill me,” He says apologetically. 

“Yeah, no problem,” He says, smiling, “I’ll see you later, Steve. Drive safe,”

Steve grabs the helmet off the counter, flashing Bucky a mischievous smile. 

“I’m always safe,” He assures, winking before leaving the apartment, calling, “Have sweet dreams, Buck,” over his shoulder. 

And Bucky Barnes most certainly did not linger in the doorway, listening to Steve’s retreating steps until the silence settled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
alcohol is consumed  
Discussion of a terrorist attack (explosions)  
Talk about Bucky's metal arm (prosthetic)  
Steve Talks about family deaths


	4. Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW in the notes below

Bucky sleeps through the whole night and wakes up twenty minutes before he and Steve are supposed to meet for coffee. He throws on a henley and shoves his hair up into a messy bun and grabbing Maus before running out the door. 

They meet at a cute cafe nearby, and Bucky strides into Cobble Hill Coffeeshop with more courage than he typically does anything because he’s so stressed about being late. 

It’s midmorning, and the cafe is surprisingly empty for a Saturday. Bucky looks around curiously, trying to find Steve. It feels like a diner, the tiled walls and floors broken up by dark wood tables. 

The door opens behind him, and he glances over his shoulder, blushing pink when he sees Steve. 

The blond man looks more casual than he typically does. His hair is unstyled, bangs falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a  _ painfully tight  _ baby blue t-shirt and tight dark-wash jeans. He looks delectable. 

“Hey Buck, good morning. Sorry, I’m late,” Steve says, giving him a quick once over. Bucky shrugs, smiling. 

“It’s fine,” he says, waiting for Steve to take the lead, following him up to the counter. 

Steve orders an americano, and Bucky gets a flat white. They each get a bagel with plain cream cheese before finding a small table near the back. 

“So, books,” Steve says, and Bucky snorts, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth.

“Yeah. Books,” is all he says in response, raising a curious eyebrow. 

“What I meant was, how did you like the book. The book I recommended. That you read. Maus,” he trips over his words, and Bucky smiles fondly, rolling his eyes. 

“It was gorgeous, obviously. I’m uh… Jewish. So… y’know,” he offers, and Steve pales. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even ask; that was so insensitive-”

“Steve, it’s cool. I was gonna say that I liked it more than I probably would have. It carries more emotional weight, y’know,” Bucky explains further, shaking his head, “I like that they were different animals. And I think the cat and mouse dynamic is interesting.” 

“I always liked that!” Steve interjects, “it’s one of the most influential graphic novels that has ever been created. It changed the landscape of graphic novels and comics, and the art is so beautiful.”

“Yeah, I think the story was a good fit for a graphic novel,” Bucky agrees, “I um… I liked how it showed how hard it can be to tell when authoritarian regimes are coming to power. It’s hard to see the danger. Like frogs,” Bucky says, and Steve frowns, head tilting slightly to the right. 

“Frogs?” 

“Yeah, it’s a fable. If you put a frog in a boiling pot of water, it’ll jump out. If you put a frog in tepid water and slowly increase the temperature, the frog won’t notice, and it’ll be cooked to death,” Bucky explains, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his hair. 

“Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before,” Steve says, a small smile on his face, “I like it though.”

They continue discussing the book for a while, each stopping to eat and sip at their coffees. 

The conversation flows easily and strays to other topics. Bucky briefly notes how comfortable he is. 

“Okay, so you mentioned fighting people twice your side. I wanna hear a story,” Bucky says, nodding once for emphasis and leaning forward on the table. 

Steve groans, covering his face with one of his large hands, shaking his head. 

“C’mon, I mean it. It’s your turn to share,” Bucky prods, and Steve relents, sighing dramatically. 

“I just didn’t like it when they were mean. I don’t like bullies, and I was a scrawny kid. I had a list of health issues about a mile long, and I didn’t grow until I was in college,” Steve begins, and Bucky nods expectantly, “So one time, a boy in the class above mine was pulling Samantha Caraven’s hair at recess. He wouldn’t leave her alone, taunting her and saying shitty sexist things. So I walked up to him and threw a punch,” Steve said, taking a sip of his coffee and practically hiding behind the cup. 

“That’s really sweet.”

“The school didn’t think so. Also, he beat the shit outta me, broke my arm and bloodied me up,” Steve says, chuckling. 

“I think it’s sweet. You stuck up for people. That’s brave,” Bucky says, and they settle into a peaceful quiet for a few minutes. 

“I have some work to do,” Steve blurts out suddenly, frowning at his own words, “But uh… if you want, you can come hang out at the shop? I just have to stock and things. We got in a new shipment last night, and I’m supposed to deal with it because Nick doesn’t want to. I know it’s boring but-”

“I’d love to,” Bucky cuts him off, his hand shooting out to cover Steve’s on the table. 

They stare at each other for what feels like forever, both wide-eyed and wordless. Bucky can see the gentle awe and subtle embarrassment marring the blond’s features, and he bets he looks the same. 

He eventually pulls his hand back sheepishly. 

“Awesome… should we?” 

“Yeah, let’s go,” Bucky says, standing and pulling his book to his chest. 

“Perfect! And I can give you the second one,” Steve adds with a wink. 

Bucky just rolls his eyes, watching Steve stride proudly towards the door. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Weeks pass, and Bucky has settled into this new life of his. He has therapy twice a week, trivia with the avengers on Tuesdays, Thursday night drinks, dinner with his family almost every Friday, and coffee and bagels with Steve on Saturday mornings. His nightmares occur less frequently, and he is finally smiling on a normal basis. 

On an unusually warm late September morning, he gets a call from Steve. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Bucky asks, laying on the couch with a bag of Doritos. 

“Not much, I was just wondering… it’s cool if you’re busy, but I have to go down to get some new art supplies, and I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come? We could grab lunch after if you’re free,” Steve babbles, and Bucky shoves a chip in his mouth. 

“Yeah, that sounds fun,” He says, and Steve lets out a breath. 

“You’re sure? I mean, you definitely don’t have to come-”

“Steve, I know. I know I don’t have to come,” He says quietly, “But I want to come. It sounds like fun, and besides, I need to get out of the house. Maria said that she’s glad I’ve settled into a routine, but I need to add leaving the apartment every once in a while. Apparently, she thinks that I’ll go stir crazy,” Bucky explains, chuckling. 

“Oh, cool. Yeah, that’s cool. Um, I’ll be by at like 11:30? If that’s okay?” He says, and Bucky nods, chomping on another Dorito. 

“Yeah, sounds good to me. I’ll be here,” He says softly, smiling to himself. 

“Perfect. I’ll see you then,” Steve sounds cheerful before he’s hanging up. 

Bucky sits up, tossing his chips on the coffee table before going to get dressed. He hums quietly, pulling on a long sleeve shirt before going to the bathroom, pulling his hair up into a bun, shoving bobby pins into the bun to secure the rogue pieces of hair. 

Twenty minutes later, he gets a text informing him that Steve is downstairs waiting, and he smiles, pulling on his gloves before jogging down the steps and out into the morning air. 

Steve is sitting on his bike, holding a second helmet for Bucky, offering it up. Bucky frowns, thinking about his bun and how to keep it from getting ruined. He sighs, pulling it on carefully before settling in behind Steve. 

The drive is longer than any of his previous rides, and for the first time, he keeps his head up. He can see the buildings flying past as Steve weaves them through Brooklyn. 

For a moment, Bucky realizes that his life is in Steve’s hands. He shivers, thinking about how it would feel if they crashed, his flesh arm skinned and bleeding, broken ribs and fractured vertebrae. He thinks about the way it would feel to have Steve pulled out from his arms, flying through the air. 

He tightens his grip, shaking off the thoughts. 

When they eventually park, Bucky pulls off the helmet, glancing at himself in the visor, making sure his bun had made it through, smiling when it appears to be unscathed. 

Steve pulls his own helmet off, turning to grin at Bucky, “You look good, Buck,” He offers, standing up, “Thanks for coming out with me,”

“No problem. I’ve never been in an art store before,” He admits, glancing at Steve, who’s eyes had grown comically wide. 

“Wow, that’s a torturous existence,” He says dramatically, clutching at his chest, and bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. 

“Nah, it just never came up,” He says, smiling to himself and following Steve inside. Bucky can tell that Steve is in his element. He wanders through aisles, reaching out to touch various art supplies reverently. As it turns out, he mostly needed new sketching supplies. He buys some charcoal pencils and some new paper before lingering near the ink, picking out a few pens. 

“You still haven’t shown me any of your art,” Bucky points out, and Steve shrugged noncommittally, hugging the supplies to his chest. 

“I’m not that good…” he says quietly, and Bucky shakes his head. 

“Don’t be so modest, it’s not a good look on you,” He teases, reaching out to shove Steve’s shoulder gently. 

“How about I make you a deal?” Steve offers, sounding serious. Bucky gestures for him to continue before reaching out to feel some paintbrushes.

“Let me draw you,” Steve says, and Bucky freezes, his hand outstretched in front of him. 

He looks over at Steve, raising his eyebrows, “You want to draw me?” he asks, and Steve nods, a serious expression on his face. 

“Yeah, you can come over to my apartment, look at all of the art you want, and then I’ll paint you. I’m always needing new people to draw. It’s easier if there’s a reference,” He says, and Bucky nods slowly. 

“Sure,” He says, turning back to the paintbrushes. 

“Really?” 

Bucky smiles, nodding and turning to look at Steve, giving him a once over, “Yeah, it would be an honor, actually. To be painted by  _ the _ Steven Grant Rogers,” He says, following Steve to the register. 

“Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he explains. 

“You couldn’t. Disappoint me, I mean,” He offers, smiling softly, “It could be the worst painting on the planet, and I’d still be amazed by you,”

They walk out to the bike, loading the supplies into the saddlebag in comfortable silence. Steve is humming something to himself, pulling out his phone and checking the time. 

“Hey, so there’s this really amazing Thai place a few blocks that way,” Steve says softly, glancing over at Bucky, “Maybe we could walk over? It’s really warm out, and I would love to take advantage of it, y’know?” He speaks quietly, and Bucky nods. Honestly, he would maybe follow Steve anywhere.

“Yeah, that sounds great. Lead the way,” 

Their lunch is quiet. Steve speaks animatedly about his week so far. Bucky listens intently, leaning on the table and taking bites of his curry. Before Bucky knows it, an hour has passed, and Steve is looking at his watch, sighing. 

“I guess we should get back, then? I have some work to do this afternoon,” He sounds upset, scratching the back of his neck. Bucky nods, gaping at Steve annoyedly when he grabs the check, handing their waiter his credit card. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bucky argues, wringing his hands together. 

“I wanted to,” is all Steve says, signing the receipt and standing, offering his hand to pull Bucky up. Bucky takes it, standing until he and Steve are almost chest to chest, their faces inches apart. 

Bucky feels suspended in time, floating weightless in front of Steve. He blinks slowly, and just as quickly as it had started, Steve takes a small step back. The air rushing back into his lungs. 

“Thank you. For lunch,” He says, voice thick, and Steve waves him off, pulling his hand away from Bucky’s. 

“Anytime,” he says, smiling softly, “Let’s head home, yeah?” Bucky nods, thinking for a millisecond about the fact that home was lonely and he’d rather be here with Steve. 

They begin their short walk back towards Steve’s bike. He’s saying something about his recent project, but Bucky is only barely listening, becoming more and more agitated by the second. 

And then, there’s a loud noise behind them, and Bucky freezes, feeling a searing white-hot pain on his left side. His eyes are wide and alert. His chest is tight. For what could be one second or an hour, he is alone, standing on the sidewalk. 

And then Steve is there, both hands resting on Bucky’s arms, foreheads close together. He’s speaking, but Bucky can’t make out the words. They’re soft and urgent, and then Steve is pulling him until they’re next to a wall. Bucky sinks down, pulling his knees to his chest, back pressed firmly against the brick. 

“Buck, I need you to breathe,” He hears, and he shakes his head, his forehead falling to rest on his knee. 

“Please, Buck. For me,” Steve tries again, and Bucky forces himself to take a sharp breath. His chest seizes on the inhale, and he’s coughing, wheezing as he tries to take in some air. Any air. Steve is still speaking to him. He sounds far away. 

Steve is pulling him then, pressing Bucky’s head to the center of his chest. 

“Match my breathing, Buck, okay? Breathe with me,” And that’s something that Bucky can feel. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest, and he sucks in a harsh breath, holding it until Steve is exhaling. 

They sit like that for a while, Bucky’s eyes squeezed tight while he tries to match Steve’s breathing. Eventually, everything seems more normal, less sharp than before. 

“There you go. It’s okay, Buck. I’ve got you, and you’re safe,” He promises, voice gentle.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. He can feel tears gathering in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, raising his hand to wipe at his eyes hastily, “I’m so sorry,” he rasps out, shaking his head. He tries to pull away from Steve, but his arms just tighten. 

“Hey, no. It’s okay. It happens sometimes,” Steve reasons, his voice even, “I’ve got you,” He adds, rubbing small circles on Bucky’s back, “Do you think you can stand? Walk?” 

Bucky nods, hauling himself up. His hands are shaking slightly, but Steve just steers him along, hand resting on the small of his back. When they arrive at Steve’s motorcycle, he hesitates. 

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says tersely, assuming that Steve’s hesitation is due to his worry. They both pull on helmets and then Bucky is pressed into Steve’s back, leaning his head on Steve’s broad back, trying to match his breathing again, eyes closing. 

When they park outside of Bucky’s apartment, he hesitates, not wanting to peel himself away from Steve. Eventually, he stands, pulling off his helmet and blinking against the bright sun. 

“Thanks. For everything,” Bucky practically whispers, sounding small. Steve reaches up, pulling off his helmet. 

“Are you alright? Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?” He asks, and Bucky hesitates, eyes darting over to his apartment. 

“You could come up? We could watch a movie or something? Have some tea?” Bucky tries his best to sound nonchalant, but the hopefulness seeps into his tone. As soon as he said the words, Steve is standing. He follows Bucky upstairs, slipping off his leather jacket and laying it over the back of one of the chairs. 

They move quietly, and Steve watches as Bucky slips off his gloves, tossing them onto the counter before walking over to his couch, pulling a quilt over his lap. He looks over at Steve while his TV turns on, and then Steve jumps into action, taking off his shoes before joining Bucky on the couch. 

They choose a movie, and Bucky is asleep in less than ten minutes, curled into Steve’s side. 

That night, Bucky Barnes wakes in a cold sweat, the smell of ash a sharp memory that he cannot escape. Whether it be bombs or garbage trucks, he cannot escape the panic that lives in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Discussion of book that talks about the holocaust.   
description of a panic attack  
PTSD symptoms


	5. Babylon

The early afternoon sun casts a harsh glare on the pavement, and Bucky is in step with Steve, watching his own shadow curiously. It had been three days since Bucky’s panic attack.

In their shadows, they look like two normal men, side by side on the Brooklyn street. It’s funny, Bucky thinks, considering he might not even be a man anymore, more of a hollow shell, the place where a man used to reside, now abandoned and run-down. 

“My, uh… my apartment is a disaster, just so you know. Don’t… judge me,” Steve pleads, and although he seems nervous, his words were still cheerful. Bucky envies that. He envies how easily Steve moves through life. 

“It’d have to be one hell of a mess for me to think any different of you, Steve,” Bucky assures, surprised when they stop in front of the Briar Patch, “This is the bookstore…?” Bucky says confusedly, eyebrows knitting together. 

“Yup,” Steve says, walking to nondescript door between The Briar Patch and the coffee shop that it was next to. They go inside, walking up a flight of stairs and then Steve is unlocking the door and pushing his way inside. 

It’s bigger than Bucky had been expecting. The apartment is open, light filtering inside, casting shadows across the cluttered space. There is a floor to ceiling bookshelf stuffed full of novels and comic books, a broken down couch and a TV are encroaching on the space that was meant to be Steve’s dining space. There is a small table with two chairs basically in the kitchen. The far end of the room is obviously where Steve creates his art. 

Steve is biting his lip, avoiding eye contact. Bucky shifts his weight, looking around the room in awe, eyes flitting around curiously, landing on sketches and paintings. It reminds him of how his apartment looked while he was writing his book, filled to the brim with materials and pages. Steve’s art sits in every corner, leaning against the walls. He has never felt more trusted. 

“They’re beautiful,” Bucky’s voice is low and reverent. He walks over to the easel that is sitting near the wide bay window, devouring Steve’s current work in progress. It’s an oil painting of the Brooklyn Bridge in a deep, violent red, “This is my favorite color,” Bucky says softly, chuckling, “Or it was, anyway. The color of blood,” Bucky adds, shaking his head, “That probably sounds fucked up,” 

“It doesn’t. Sound fucked up,” Steve assures, stepping closer, looking over the painting, “It’s not done, obviously. I want it to kind of emulate the American flag. I want to add stars, 50 blue ones,” he says, scrunching up his nose a bit, “It’s one of my worst pieces, I think,” 

“I love it,” Bucky argues, walking past it and over to the desk tucked closer to the window. There are some sketches, all in pencil. The first is one of Nat laughing, her head tipped back. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure that she ever looked this carefree. Next to it, there lies a sketch of her staring impassively at the viewer. They look almost unsettling next to each other. 

“God, I can’t believe I thought you were a teacher. You’re so talented. I bet you could sell this stuff for like hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Your painting could be hanging in the oval goddamn office, and it would fit in,” Bucky praises, and Steve snorts, shaking his head. 

“Maybe someday, Buck. For now, it’s mostly commissions and small gallery shows. The paintings aren’t my main source of income,” He reminds, and Bucky nods, thinking that they should be. Every person in the universe should be looking at Steve’s artwork and seeing the pain, the passion in them. 

“I, uh… I did a painting after I read escaping peace. I don’t know if you’ll think it’s any good, but if you want to see it,” Bucky looks up at him with wide blue eyes, wondering how he had gotten so incredibly lucky. 

“I do,” he says immediately, nodding, “I want to see it,” he pleads, turning his attention back to the desk. Peeking out from a stack, there’s a picture of Sam, another man on his lap, giving the viewer a pointed, mischievous smile. Bucky reaches down, his fingers skimming the pointed corner of the drawing. 

“It’s not that good,” Steve warns, wringing his hands together, “Do you want to… wait here for a second?” He asks before disappearing into what Bucky assumed was Steve’s bedroom. Bucky hums to himself, walking over to where more paintings are propped against the wall. 

There’s a portrait of a beautiful middle aged woman, she stares at him sternly, blood under her fingernails and a bottle of peroxide in her left hand. Bucky wonders briefly if this was Steve’s mother. They have the same kind blue eyes. 

“Okay, if you think it’s atrocious, please don’t disappear and never speak to me again,” Steve says from behind bucky, startling him from his thoughts. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky responds seriously as he turned to face Steve. The blond is gnawing on his lip, holding a moderately sized painting in his hands. Bucky can only see the back side, and he reaches out to take it from Steve. 

“Okay,” Steve says (more to himself than to Bucky), letting out a shaky chuckle before turning it around for Bucky to see. 

The air catches in Bucky’s throat, and he stares, wide-eyed. The painting is gorgeous. There is a silhouette of a man, his skin translucent as if he were disappearing into the background, a purposefully murky, abstract cityscape. His right hand is reaching over, palm out near the side of the painting. His left arm is a violent shade of red from shoulder to fingertips. At the bottom, in gold script, it reads ‘there is nothing left for us to do but try to escape this peace’. 

“Steve…” He whispers, fingers twitching to reach out and touch. 

“It isn’t my best,” Steve says. It’s an apology, Bucky recognizes, but he just shakes his head. 

“It’s beautiful. It’s Christopher, right?” he whispers, eyes softening, “It’s him trying to find his way back. But he can’t. He never could,” Bucky says, trying to explain his feelings both about the character and the painting, “He wanted things to go back to the way they were before,” 

“But we can’t go back,” Steve finishes, the tension melting away from his shoulders. 

“We can’t go back,” Bucky repeats hollowly, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes, “You… it’s him. It’s Christopher. It’s…  _ perfect _ ,” he says, chuckling, “You picked the line the title came from,” he says, and Steve nods. 

“There were a few lines that really… got me,” He explains, “I almost did a set. I almost did a second one with Casey. That’s why his arm is out. He was supposed to be reaching for her, but… I don’t know. It seemed insincere. To paint them together when…”

“When they don’t end up together?” Bucky finishes, chuckling, “Yeah, my Ma was livid when she finished it. She was all ‘what do you mean he doesn’t get a happy ending, James?’” Bucky says, pitching his voice in an impersonation of his mother, “But it… it isn’t a happy story. It isn’t supposed to be. It never was, not from the day I started,” he tries to explain, “I think he’s reaching for something. I don’t think he knows what it is,” Bucky says, talking about the painting again. 

“You can have it,” Steve speaks suddenly, and Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, “If you want it, I mean,” 

“Really? You’d let me?” He asks, and Steve smiles sheepishly.

“I’d uh- god, this is going to sound insane- I would like to give you something back? I read it when I was in a really dark place. It was nice to have Christopher there. I felt like you… understood me?” Steve tries to explain, and Bucky just nods, a little startled by the thought of Steve going through something bad enough that he would relate to such a dark, hopeless character. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” He agrees, reaching out to take the painting into his hands, “Thank you. For this,” He walks over to the counter, setting it down and pulling off his gloves, setting them down beside it. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Steve says, and Bucky shakes his head, turning to look at him. 

“‘I have read all of the great love stories. I have always wanted to meet another who understands me so deeply that words are meaningless. I have always wanted to look at her and think, I belonged to you before I even belonged to myself,’” Bucky mutters, his cheeks a soft pink color. 

Steve smiles sadly, picking up where he left off. 

“Instead, we whispered sweet everythings until this bed, too, became babylon,” there is that strange look on Steve’s face again, the one that Bucky cannot decipher, and Bucky walks back over to him, finishing the passage in a whisper, sounding a bit pained. 

“Perhaps I am not the kind of man who can have a storybook love. There are too many words in me. I don’t know if there’s space for anything else,” 

The air is charged, something electric between the two of them. They stare at each other, both masking whatever it is that is being felt. Bucky wants to reach out and touch him. He wants to scream as loud as he can. He wants to close his eyes and forget all of the dark places that he has ever been in. 

He doesn’t know how to. Instead, he smiles sadly, breaking the eye contact and taking a small step back. 

“It isn’t true, you know,” Steve whispers, and Bucky frowns, glancing back over at Steve. He still has that funny look on his face. He still looks like he might have every secret in the world wrapped up inside his chest, “There’s more than just words in you. There’s plenty of space for another person,” 

Bucky laughs, the sound dripping from his mouth bitterly, “Maybe,” he says, voice tight. 

_ But then again _ , he thinks,  _ Maybe you could tuck yourself between my ribs and make a home there. But maybe I’m just an empty house.  _


	6. Meet the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw below

The brownstone is looming above them, and Bucky is nervous. He’s wearing a button down, both arms bare, and Steve is in his normal plaid button-down, looking like a kindergarten teacher, all american and sweet as apple pie. 

Bucky reaches his hand out, knocking twice. It’s Alice who answers the door, reaching out to shove Bucky’s shoulder. 

“You haven’t texted me in weeks, asshole,” Is all she says before moving aside, gesturing for them both to come in. 

“This is Steve. Steve, this is the obnoxious middle child, Alice,” He says, rolling his eyes but pulling her in for a quick hug anyway. 

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says cordially, and Alice just nods, trotting off. 

“Don’t read into her too much. She’s… eccentric,” Bucky explains, slipping his shoes off and pulling Steve down the hall by his hand. 

“Buckybear!” He hears, and he cringes, turning to appraise Becca.

“Hey, Becs,” He says, and Becca is there in a second, pulling him down into a fierce hug. She turns to Steve as soon as they separate, offering her hand. 

“Rebecca Barnes, the best of the Barnes children,” She says, and Steve laughs, shaking her hand firmly. 

“Steve Rogers,” He introduces himself, and she nods, giving him a once over. 

“Nice to meet you, Steve Rogers. Ma and Mary Grace are in the kitchen,” She says, turning to Bucky for the second part. Bucky nods, focusing on his breathing. 

“Thanks, Becs,” He smiles, turning to glance at Steve, “C’mon,” He leads Steve to the wide open kitchen where Winnie is floating around, checking on all of the food. Mary Grace is sitting on the counter. 

“Hey, Ma,” Bucky says softly, and she turns around, grinning at him. All of the Barnes women have the same wide grin. Bucky thinks he did too, once upon a time. 

“James, you’re late. Set the table,” She chastises, and he rolls his eyes, nodding, “And you must be James’ friend. It’s nice to meet you, and thanks for keeping my boy’s head above water,” She’s straight to the point. 

“Nice to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Steve,” He offers up his hand. She pulls him into a tight hug instead. 

“Don’t call me that. I’m Winnie,” She says, pointing Bucky in the direction of the plates. Bucky grumbles something about being the only one who ever sets the table before stalking off to grab everything for their dinner, “And this one is my youngest, Mary Grace,” 

Bucky is out of the kitchen for the rest of whatever conversation is happening. He sets the table meticulously, getting lost in it and not looking up until Becca pulls out her chair. 

“He’s cute,” she says, feigning nonchalance. 

“Sure, I guess,” Bucky counters, and Becca snorts. 

“You guess? You look at him like he hung the stars, Buck. You can’t bullshit me,” She says, and before Bucky can say anything, everyone else enters the room, carrying various dishes of food. 

“What does everyone want to drink?” Bucky asks as they begin to serve food. Various requests are thrown out, and he turns to Steve, waiting for his answer. 

“Whatever is easiest,” Steve says, shrugging, and Bucky rolls his eyes, disappearing into the kitchen. He stares for a moment at one of the beers in the fridge, wanting to bring it for Steve but not wanting to cause a scene, which he inevitably would. Sighing, he gets another glass of water before reentering the dining room. 

“I’m an artist, actually,” Steve explains, smiling a bit sheepishly, “Some gallery stuff. Some commissions, but mostly I’m an illustrator and a comic book artist,” He explains to the Barnes women, who are all looking at him intently. Bucky passes out the drinks. 

“You creatives always find each other,” Alice says, shaking her head, “Not like the rest of us,” 

“It’s because they’re made of the same stuff,” Winnifred says to Alice, “They see the world differently than we do, that’s what your dad always said,” She explains, “James, Mary Grace, and Steve, they’re sensitive,” 

Alice rolls her eyes, “Well, that seems like a waste of time. Not the art, the rest of it,” 

“It isn’t a waste,” Mary Grace argues, and Bucky sighs, shoving a bite of mashed potatoes in his mouth, “Think about how boring everything would be without art,” 

“I said the rest of it, May,” 

“Well, I think it’s cool. I wish I could look at people and see stories,” Becca offers, shrugging, “Bucky looks at the world and sees something that I’ll never be able to understand,” She points out to Alice, “And then he can explain it,” 

“Steve can paint it,” Bucky says, glancing over at the blonde. He was smiling fondly at Bucky. 

“Some days,” He says casually, and they continue eating, the conversation moving away from profession. 

After they have cleared the table, Winnifred brings out dessert, causing Alice to grin mischievously, glancing over at the two men. 

“I see how it is, Buckybear brings a boy over and we all get dessert? Steve’s your favorite, isn’t he,” She asks, and Bucky chokes on his water, coughing for a minute while Alice just grinned at him wickedly. 

Bucky grabs a piece of the pie, shoving a bite into his mouth to avoid answering. 

“So, Buck. Have you been going to your meetings?” his mother asks, and Bucky becomes stone still, eyes focusing on his plate. 

“I don’t have meetings, Ma,” He says lowly, and Winnifred just laughs, shaking her head. 

“You keep saying that you don’t have a problem, but we talked about this. Even if you’re right and I’m not, those meetings’ll do you some good,” She says casually, and Bucky notices the way his siblings have all fallen quiet, eating their dessert slowly. 

“I don’t need to. Maria has never once suggested that I do that. The only reason-” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to Steve, who is looking at him curiously, “Maria said it isn’t a problem. She says that it could have been, but I’m better now,” he says vaguely. 

“You’re better now?” She demands, incredulous, and Bucky’s expression darkens. 

“God, Ma. Let it the fuck go, okay? I’m going to stop coming here if you attack me every time,” He snaps, and he can see Mary Grace flinch. Bucky had never been great with confrontation. He is easily riled and gets defensive quickly. 

“So you’re drinking then?” She says, and Bucky’s face twists. He laughs sardonically, shaking his head. 

“And if I am?” 

“It just seems to me that the alcohol was just making you worse. You’re sick, James. And drinking is never-”

“You don’t know  anything about that ! You weren’t  there ,” Bucky argues, his voice raising a few decibels. 

“And whose fault was that?” 

Bucky stands, the noise of the chair against the wood floor jarring against the silence. He doesn’t have a plan after that. If Steve weren’t there, he would walk out without another word, run down the pavement until he couldn’t breathe and his lungs were nothing but a sharp pain. 

“Buck,” Steve says softly, reaching over to grab is hand, squeezing gently. After a moment, he turns to make eye contact. Steve looks more concerned than he’s seen him since the panic attack, “Sit down, okay?” his words are gently. 

Bucky let’s out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, and he sits back down, tightening his fingers around Steve’s when he tries to pull his hands away. 

“I don’t know how many times I can apologize, Ma. It isn’t my fault you won’t forgive me,” He says, words devoid of emotion, “Maria said that I’m doing really well. I just wish you could trust me enough to make my own motherfucking decisions. I’m a grown man for christ’s sake,” 

“You don’t act like one,” she counters, and Becca frowned deeply. 

“That’s not fair, Ma,” She argues, and Winnifred sighs, standing up to collect plates silently. 

Bucky swallows thickly, “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute,” he mutters, scurrying out of the room while she is off in the kitchen. He can hear hushed voices behind him, but he just rushes to the bathroom, letting out a long breath as soon as the door is shut behind him. He closes his eyes, shaking his head. 

It had been so good. It had been perfect before he and his Ma had started fighting. And now, Steve was-

There’s a knock on the door. 

“If you’re actually going to the bathroom, I’m sorry. Becca said I should be the one to come check on you though,” Steve’s voice is soft as ever, and Bucky curses quietly, turning to open the door. 

Steve immediately reaches out, pulling Bucky against his chest, rubbing small circles on his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky forces out, and Steve shakes his head. 

“Don’t be,” He argues, “You’re family, and family isn’t always pretty. You don’t have to apologize to me,” Steve assures, pulling back to look Bucky in the eye, “You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to, okay? Ever. And I mean that,” 

Bucky is surprised by this, and he frowns deeply shaking his head, “But I’m sure you-”

“What, have questions? Of course I do, but Bucky, you don’t owe me any answers. I want you to open up to me on your own terms. At your own pace. I want to know because I care about you, but I want you to tell me because you want to,” Steve’s words are sure, and Bucky shakes his head again, running a hand through his hair. 

“You’re too good for me,” He says quietly, pushing past him and walking in the direction of the dining room, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Steve was following. 

The brief remainder of their night at Bucky’s childhood home is fine but tense. Bucky shrinks, his shoulders hunching over in an attempt to make himself smaller. Steve is at his side the entire time, hovering protectively. 

When they finally leave, Bucky hugs all of the Barnes women one by one, kissing them each on the cheek. 

“When are we doing lunch, Buckybear?” Becca demands while Bucky is pulling on his shoes. He frowns, shrugging. 

“I dunno, I’m free most days, just send me a date, Becs,” he says, and she nods. 

“It was good to meet you, Steve. Keep my Buckybear out of trouble, will you?” Her voice was stern, and Steve laughs, cheeks flushing pink. 

“You got it all backwards. He’s a good influence on me,” Steve argues, but he lets his arm snake its way around Bucky’s waist, tugging him closer, “But I’ll do what I can. It was nice to meet you all too,” and with final goodbyes said, Bucky lets Steve guide him outside. 

Their taxi ride is quiet. Bucky hasn’t felt this drained in weeks, and he just wants to curl up in bed. When they arrive at Bucky’s, Steve gets out too after paying the driver and sending him off. 

“You didn’t have to get out,” Bucky argues, frowning to himself. 

“I know, but I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay. I know sometimes when you’re stressed you like to curl up on the couch, and if you want any company… here I am,” He offers, voice soft. 

Bucky stares up at him, surprised. He lets out a breathy chuckle before surging forward, wrapping his arms around Steve’s midsection, burying his face in the taller man’s neck, breathing in deeply. 

“Thank you,” He whispers, hands balled up in the back of Steve’s shirt. 

Steve holds him just as fiercely, arms enveloping Bucky’s broad shoulders. 

“You don’t ever have to thank me, Buck,” His words are reverent, and Bucky lets out a desperate chuckle, shaking his head. He didn’t know how to explain all of the ways that Steve settles his anxiety. 

“I know, but I want to,” Bucky argues, sniffling and blinking back tears, “If you want to come up, you can. But I don’t think I’m going to be good company. I was planning on curling up in bed,” he explained. 

“Are we still on for coffee tomorrow?” Steve asks, and Bucky smiles softly, pulling back to meet Steve’s eyes. 

“Of course we are. Just like every other Saturday,” he reminds, and Steve nods. 

“I was thinking… maybe you’d like to come to mine instead? I can make us drinks, and we can just hang out?” Steve sounds unsure, so Bucky just smiles up at him, nodding. 

“Sounds great. Thank you so much, Steve. For everything. I’ll swing by at 11?” Bucky asks, and Steve nods, pulling him to his chest again for a brief hug. 

“Have sweet dreams, Buck,” He says softly, breath tickling Bucky’s ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Mentioned alcoholism  
Family conflict


	7. Adonis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW below

Bucky Barnes can’t hear anything over the screaming. He claws his way through the rubble, a coating of dust settling into his mouth and nose. He only has one arm, so the crawling is slow going. His pulse is sharp in his throat. He wants the tang of blood out of his mouth. 

With each pull of his body, both the pain and his desperation grows. 

“Steve!” He calls out, but its barely above a whisper, his vocal cords swollen. He’s still digging around through the rubble, his fingers staining the concrete crimson. 

“Steve!” He calls again, louder this time, and his eyes widen when he hears a faint groan from his left. He pushes himself toward the noise, grunting with exertion as he pulls a slab of concrete aside, finding a bloodied Steve underneath. 

“Oh, god.  Stevie,”  he whispered, coughing sharply and trying to pull him out from under the fallen building. 

Steve hisses, a wet rasping sound. Bucky knows that sound. It’s the sound of punctured lungs, maybe bloody. He shakes his head, forehead falling to rest against Steve’s. 

“Hey, no no no. Keep your eyes open for me,” Bucky begged. Steve forced his eyes open, but after a few seconds, they fall closed again, “No, Steve, no. Steve, c’mon. Not like this,” Bucky pleaded, tears falling from his eyes. 

“Buh…?” 

“Yeah. I’m here, Stevie. I got you,” he whispered, voice cracking. 

Bucky wakes with a gasp, hair plastered to his forehead. His breathing is rapid, and his throat is tight. 

He sits up, pulling his hair back and feeling around blindly for a hair tie, pulling his hair away from his face. 

He has to take a cold shower to cool his skin. It still feels like he’s on fire. 

He’s twenty minutes early to Steve’s apartment, pacing the hallway. He hadn’t fallen back to sleep that night, and his anxiety had only grown. After pacing for a couple minutes, he curses under his breath before knocking on the door sharply, three harsh taps of his left knuckles.

He can hear some kind of movement on the other side of the door, and a moment later, Steve pulls it open. 

His hair is wet, laying flat against his forehead, water droplets dotting his face and neck. But that isn’t what Bucky is startled by. 

He’s wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, dipping just a touch lower than would normally be considered decent. And from what Bucky can tell, that’s all he’s wearing. 

Bucky had tried to avoid thinking about his newfound best friend in compromising positions, but holy shit. He’s built like a fucking house. Steve is a vast expanse of broad shoulders, narrow hips, and chiseled abs. Bucky wants to  lick him . 

How had he not noticed how small Steve’s waist is? He thinks Steve could maybe bench press him. And that is not a productive thought. 

Pull yourself together. He curses himself internally, pulling his eyes away from Steve’s chest regretfully. 

“I’m sorry I’m early,” he blurts out, looking up at Steve apologetically. He’s never blushed so red in his entire life. 

“No problem, Buck. Can I go get dressed?” He asks, and Bucky laughs, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Or you could not. It’s a good look,” the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He recoils then, stunned by himself, “Oh,  god . I’m so sorry. That was weird. Go put a shirt on. I can’t fucking  think with you standing here all-” he gestures at Steve’s chest, exhasperated. 

Steve laughs, raising his eyebrows but saying nothing. He disappears into a back room, which Bucky assumes is his bedroom. 

Bucky takes the minute that Steve is gone to compose himself, fanning his face with his metal hand, trying to cool down. He thinks back over his outburst, noting that he had sounded like his younger self for a moment. 

Bucky sighs, plopping down on the couch, sinking into the cushions. He hums, slipping his shoes off before pulling his knees up to his chest. He looks around, eyes settling on the canvas sitting on the easel. The painting is further along than it was the last time he saw it, and Bucky smiled softly to himself, eyes tracing along the clean lines of the bridge. 

“ What do you want to drink?” he asks, and Bucky just shrugs, dragging his eyes away from the art. Steve looks more put together now, wearing a pair of light wash denim jeans and a soft looking red t-shirt. 

“Don’t care,” He says, standing up and walking over to where Steve is loitering in his kitchen, “Tea would be good. Or just water,” he sounds distracted, and Steve nods, whistling to himself as he moved through the kitchen. 

“So, what is it exactly that was so distracting?” Steve asks, and he sounds far too casual. Bucky narrows his eyes, glancing over at the younger man. 

“Fuck you. You know what,” he says, crossing his arms. 

Steve is quiet for a moment, a devilish smile on his full, pink lips. He leans on the counter, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t know what. Enlighten me,” 

“You’re such a dick,” Bucky groans, running a hand over his face before trying to speak, “C’mon, Steve. You’re like a fucking greek god or something. Adonis? Hercules? I don’t know. The point is that you’re stunning, and I’m just a mere mortal. Can’t deal with the abs, man,” he says, growing more embarrassed with each word. 

Steve drops it after that.

“How’d you sleep?” Steve asks, and Bucky goes still, eyes widening a bit. He swallows thickly, shrugging. 

“Uh… I don’t sleep much,” Bucky explains, feigning nonchalance, “I slept for a couple hours,” Steve stills, looking over his shoulders, concern carving its way onto his face. 

“A couple hours? Buck, you must be exhausted,” He speaks with his soft voice. Bucky lets out a chuckle. 

“It’s uh… not really a big deal. I’m used to it,” He points out, leaning against Steve’s counter, “I just have like… nightmares and stuff,” he says, and Steve turns around, reaching out to push a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. 

“Buck, how long has it been since you’ve gotten a full night’s sleep?” he questions, and Bucky sighs, shaking his head. 

“It’s been better recently, actually. Last night was my first bad night in like… a week,” He says quietly, and Steve nods.

“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs, nodding. 

“Yeah, everyone does. It’s mostly the PTSD and anxiety,” he says, and then he freezes, realizing that he still hasn’t told Steve about his illnesses, “You uh… said that you had questions? Last night?” he prompts nervously, “I could try to answer some?” 

Once they are both settled on the couch, nursing their drinks with a blanket draped over their laps, Steve sighs, shaking his head and trying to gather his bearings. He smiles over at Bucky sweetly before finally speaking. 

“So, is the PTSD from the terrorist attack?” He asks softly, and Bucky nods right away. 

“Yeah, it’s usually what my nightmares are about. I think I’ve re-lived losing my arm a thousand times by now,” He admits, smiling weakly, “And It’s why I still have panic attacks at loud noises or crowded streets sometimes,” 

Steve nods, taking a sip of his tea, “So… why aren’t you writing anymore?” He asks cautiously, and Bucky sighs, shaking his head. 

“I started writing escaping peace when I was in physical therapy after the accident. It was… kind of like my way of dealing with the trauma. And then… everything changed. No one saw me for me, I was just the writer. And then people wanted more from me. They didn’t care if it was good. They didn’t even care if I wrote it. My publisher kept trying to hire ghost writers. I was just a set of numbers…” He trailed off, quiet for a moment before continuing, “And then I hated it because I wasn’t doing it for me anymore, so I stopped. And then…” 

Bucky doesn’t continue, suddenly very intrigued by his tea. Steve doesn’t want to push him, reaching over to touch Bucky’s cheek, tilting his head up so that they meet eyes. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Steve reminds him, and Bucky nods. 

“I uh… I’m not an alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic. When I was really… bad, the alcohol wasn’t helping. But I’m fine, and I haven’t been drunk in a really long time, and I was completely sober for almost a year while I was… I’m sorry. I want you to know everything, and I trust you. I do. But it’s really hard for me to talk about, and it’s a long story. I’m sorry,” Bucky forces out, his knuckles going white from holding his mug so tightly. 

“Hey, Buck. Shhh. I get it. I told you, we’re on your time frame. Thank you for trusting me with that. It really means a lot,” He speaks as sweetly as he can manage, leaning closer to Bucky on the couch, “I’m sorry people stopped treating you like you. You deserve the whole world, Buck,” 

Bucky flushes a violent shade of red, avoiding eye contact. He just nods, “thank you, Steve,” he whispers, “You uh… you never told me that you’re an illustrator,” he points out, changing the subject, “you said you were an artist. But you didn’t tell me what kind,” and then Steve is blushing. 

“Oh, yeah. That’s actually my main source of income. I don’t usually tell people that,” he’s trying for casual, “I draw for Captain America. They’re comic books,” he explains, and Bucky nods thoughtfully. 

“Do you have any here?” Bucky’s curious, and when Steve nods, he grins, “Can I borrow some? I want to read your comic books,” He is excited, beaming up at him. Steve nods warily. 

“Yeah, Buck. Of course. I uh… I was actually wondering something. You can say no, if you want,” He begins cautiously, and Bucky listens attentively, “Uh… there’s a really interesting character in the next arc, and I was wondering if maybe I could design him after you? He’s technically a villain at the beginning, but he’s really complex and cool and sweet. And I just think the metal arm could be really beautiful,” Steve rushes out, and Bucky stares at him, surprised. 

“What?” he asks, voice hushed, and Steve is beet red. 

“I told you it’s okay if you don’t want-”

“Yes, Stevie. Of course you can,” He says immediately, smiling, “That’s… wow, I… thank you, Steve. That’s so sweet,” His cheeks are flushed, and Steve just shrugs, nodding. 

“I promise I won’t let you down, Buck. I also… I also would love to paint you. Like really paint you, if you’d let me,” 

Bucky nods again, and honestly, He’d give Steve anything he asked for right then in that moment. 

“Of course I’ll let you, Steve. That’s like… the highest honor, and we had a deal already,” 

“Right,” they stare at each other for a long moment, hushed and in awe, “Well, in the meantime, get comfy, cuz It’ll take time for me to paint you. You can turn the TV on, if you want,” he explains, setting the remote next to Bucky’s thigh. 

He stands then, moving around the room gracefully. He pulls out a fresh canvas, setting it on the easel before moving to get his pencils and his acrylic paints. He pulls up a stool then, sitting down and smiling fondly at Bucky (who had put on tangled, the superior disney movie). 

“How do you want me?” Bucky asks all of a sudden, pulling his gaze from the television, looking over at Steve with his disheveled hair, pencil between his teeth. 

“Oh, uh… how would you feel about taking your shirt off?” Steve questions, chin dipping down sheepishly. 

Bucky doesn’t respond, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside and smiling at Steve. He moves to run his fingers through his hair, tousling it a bit. 

“Is there a pose you’d prefer?” he asks, and Steve shakes his head. 

“No, could you just like… lay down on your side maybe?” he asked, nose scrunching up when Bucky moved. He shakes his head quickly, “No. No no…” he walks over kneeling beside the couch, a small frown occupying his features. 

“Yes?” Bucky prompts, the corner of his mouth curling up. 

“Is it alright if I touch you?” He asks, and Bucky nods. 

Steve reaches his hand out slowly, pushing Bucky’s hair out of his face before pushing him back into the crook of the sofa, changing the angle of his shoulders. He smiles then, nodding. 

“Okay, stay still,” He says, voice light. He stands then, moving back to his stool and getting to work. 

Bucky stays as still as he could while he watches the movie, smiling to himself every time Steve sings along while he works. He wonders if Steve even realizes that he does it. 

When the movie ends, Bucky flips through Netflix, trying to stay still for Steve. He puts on Friends and sighs, looking over to watch Steve work. 

He looks just as gorgeous as Bucky had imagined a two months prior, eyes laser focused on the canvas, hands moving surely. 

“How’s it coming?” Bucky asks, and Steve looks up obviously startled. He grins, nodding. 

“Well, you’re stunning. It’s not every day I get a damn near perfect model, yknow?” He says cheerfully, and Bucky raises his eyebrows, shaking his head. 

“You’re insane,” he mutters, and Steve frowns. 

“Am not. You’re basically Adonis. Have you seen yourself?” Steve demands, but he doesn’t pull his eyes away from the painting, leaning in closer. 

“Nah, I don’t look in the mirror very often. It gives me anxiety,” Bucky explains casually, shrugging. 

“Well, I think you’re stunning. Maybe the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen,” Steve says, voice tentative now. Bucky presses himself back into the couch even further, trying to make himself smaller, “Hey, you okay?” Steve asks, sounding concerned. 

Bucky shakes his head immediately, swallowing before speaking. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” his voice is quiet, the anxiety seeping into his chest. He can’t tell what’s wrong, but there is a familiar emptiness in the pit of his stomach. 

“Well, I’m pretty much done. Everything else is just details, and I don’t need you laying there for me to do that. Wanna order a pizza or something?” He asks. Bucky nodded slowly. 

“Yeah. Sounds great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning:
> 
> Nightmares  
Mentions of PTSD and anxiety  
Mentions of alcohol


	8. The Whole Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW below

Bucky refuses to leave his apartment. He’s laid on the couch in his dirty clothes, hair growing greasier by the day. He doesn’t want to see anyone or do anything, falling into his old patterns. 

He hasn’t been eating anything. He has barely been sleeping. And he won’t answering anyone’s calls. 

Four days into his isolation, he has 7 missed calls from Steve, each with an increasingly anxious voicemail. 

Hey, Buck. We missed you last night for drinks. I hope you’re feeling okay. Shoot me a text when you get this. 

The first one was so casual. 

Hey, Buck. It’s Steve. You uh… you didn’t come to coffee this morning. Are you alright? I still haven’t heard anything from you, and I’m getting worried. 

Hey, Buck. I’m really stressed, and I don’t know what to do. Can you call me? I just uh… need to hear your voice. 

Bucky, answer your damn phone. Or text me. Literally just send me a period. I just want to know that you’re okay. 

Buck, please. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please pick up. 

If I did something, can you at least let me know? I just want to make sure you’re doing okay, Buck. 

When my mom died, I used to sit and stare at the wall for days on end. I didn’t know how to breathe or eat or think without her. Nothing made any sense. I didn’t have anyone. Or anything. Even painting in a world without her seemed like a waste of time. Everything seemed like a waste of time. I just wanted it to stop… Anyway, I hope you know that you aren’t alone. I’m here, Buck. So are Nat and Sam. 

For fuck’s sake, Buck. Please. I’m literally begging you to answer your phone. If not for me, then for Sam. Because he’s starting to worry about me. 

I uh… I finished the sketches for the new issue of Captain America if you want to see them. I want to make sure you like it before I send it in. Or not. It’s whatever, I guess. Call me back. I miss your voice. I miss you. I uh… I gotta go. But I just want you to know… I’m sorry for whatever I did, and I hope you’ll let me try and make it up to you. Bye, Buck. 

Bucky hasn’t listened to any of them, his phone forgotten somewhere in his bedroom. 

A week and a half later, there is a sharp knock on his door. He glances towards it without making a move to get up. He’s barely eaten enough food to sustain himself, and he smells disgusting. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. 

“James. Open the door,” Natasha’s voice cuts clearly, and he flinches, glancing back towards the door, “I’m serious, James. If you don’t open the door, I’ll pick the lock. Get over here,” 

He sighs, standing up and pulling a blanket around his shoulders, walking over and unlocking the door, not opening it before he strides back to the couch, laying down and staring ahead. 

“Jesus christ…” her words are quiet, and she looks around his apartment with wide eyes, setting a few bags down on the counter before walking over and sitting on the arm of Bucky’s sofa, “James, look at me,” her words are softer now. Bucky looks over at her, “What’s wrong?” 

Bucky shrugs, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to block out the world. 

“Nothing,” he croaks, his voice tight and ragged from days of nonuse

“Bullshit. Steve has worried himself sick. I had to send Sam to make sure he took a couple days off because he’s made himself ill. Why haven’t you called him back,” Natasha demands, and Bucky just shrugs. 

“I dunno,” he mutters, and Natasha stands, moving to sit on the floor in front of Bucky’s face.

“James, look at me. We are your friends, and you’re scaring us,” she says, reaching out to touch his cheek with gentle fingers, “I need you to tell me what happened,” 

Bucky is quiet for a long while, searching natasha’s face and trying to formulate coherent thoughts that aren’t self-deprecating. 

“I dunno, Nat,” He forces out, shaking his head. Suddenly his vision is watery, everything blurring, “Everything was so good and I just… I didn’t know how to… I don’t. I can’t-” and then he’s sobbing, curling into a ball on the couch. 

Natasha’s arms are around him instantaneously, and she’s rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. 

“No, Yasha, shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright. I have you,” she whispered sweetly, cradling the large man for what must have been an eternity until he calmed down a bit, still trembling but no longer sobbing. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he choked out, and she just shakes her head. 

“No, Yasha, it’s okay. Will you let me take care of you?” She asked, and he nodded, swallowing thickly, “Okay, how about this. I need you to take a bath or a shower. Which do you prefer?” 

Bucky frowns, trying to think it through. His thoughts are fuzzy, but he doesn’t know if he can stand for a long time, “Bath,” he says, and Natasha stands, disappearing into his bedroom and drawing a bath before going out and leading James into the bathroom. 

“Can you do this part on your own? Or do you want some help?” She asks. Bucky’s cheeks flash a violent shade of red. 

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles, and she nods, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Okay, but make sure you wash your hair, okay, Yasha?” when he nods, she leaves the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind her and going to start the stew. She hums while she works, leaving it to simmer and going back to Bucky’s bedroom, knocking on the bathroom door. 

“Are you okay in there, Yasha?” there’s quiet for a couple of seconds. 

“Yes,” 

“Okay, the stew needs to simmer for another half hour. Can I pull out some clothes for you?” She asks, and once he tells her where the sweatpants and t-shirts are, she goes and fetches him clothes, entering the bathroom and setting them down on the counter, carefully avoiding looking over at him. 

“Thank you,” 

“No need to thank me. I’m going to put your blanket and clothes in the washer. They smell horrible,” She offers, “When you come out, we’ll put something on the television, okay?” she says, gathering his discarded outfit. 

“Okay,” She leaves again, washing his clothes and blanket before going through the apartment and tidying up. 

When Bucky finally emerges, hair soaking wet, Natasha smiles at him warmly, walking over to the couch. 

“Would you like me to braid your hair?” She asks softly, and he nods tentatively, sitting down on the floor in front of her. She smiles, turning on the TV, “What do you want to watch?” she asks. When he shrugs, she puts on a disney movie before finger combing his hair. 

It had been a long time since someone had touched Bucky in a way that could even be considered intimate. He melts under her fingertips, leaning back into her knees. She smiles, massaging his scalp gently and working out the knots. 

“Your hair is beautiful, Yasha. We should go to my salon together sometime. I think you would like it,” she says, beginning to french braid his hair, pulling a hair tie from her wrist to tie it up at the end. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and she nods, dropping to kiss the crown of his head. 

“Of course. Come sit with me, Yasha. You seem cuddly. Like a cat,”

“Can I get a new blanket?” he mumbles, and she nods, watching him move quickly to the linen closet, pulling out a clean blanket and making his way over to the couch. She pulls him beside her, smiling when he immediately curls into her side, resting his head on her shoulder.

She is amazed at how small he can make himself. It is as if he can will himself to disappear into her side. She smiles warmly, rubbing at his left arm, not even thinking twice about the cool metal. 

After the movie ends, she sighs, turning the volume down and standing, chuckling at the startled pool of man left on the couch. 

“Come on. It’s dinner time, and then we need to talk,” She says, offering him a hand. He lets her pull him around, sitting down with a bowl of stew and a glass of water, the blanket still wrapped around him. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, and Natahsa watches as Bucky shovels stew into his mouth greedily, chugging the water as soon as he finishes. 

“It’s good,” he says, licking his lips, and Natasha just smiles. 

“Thank you. It’s Kavardak. I’ll leave you the recipe,” She says, smiling softly, “I also brought some food. It’s all basic, some vegetables, fruit, bread, and sandwich meat,” she explains, eating her own bowl slowly. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Bucky says quietly, eyes trained on the table in front of him. 

“Of course I did. Don’t be stupid, James. You obviously aren’t doing well,” She chastises, shaking her head, “Now, are you ready to tell me what happened?” 

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and wringing his hands together. 

“I don’t really know what happened,” Bucky admitted, chuckling bitterly, “I was doing well… better than I have in a really long time. And then Steve was staring at me like I hung the stars or something. And I… I don’t deserve that. Steve’s so good. He’s got such a big heart, and I’m… I dunno,” he said, shaking his head. 

“James, do you like Steve?” She asks, and he looks up with wide eyes, blinking slowly. 

“I don’t. I can’t…”

“You’re right, James. Steve’s good. Steve is the best. Steve is the kind of man that is entirely made up of love and righteousness and selfless rage. He would set the entire world on fire for the people that he loves. He would destroy anyone and anything that dared to hurt his people, yes?” she began, and Bucky is still staring at her with wide eyes. 

“And Steve has chosen you, James. He met you, and he decided that you are worthy of occupying space in his heart. He thinks that you are worth all of that. Why can’t you trust his judgement?” 

Bucky doesn’t have an answer for that. He just stares, shaking his head back and forth slowly. 

“Because he’s wrong about me,” he croaks, his vision going blurry again. He hugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders, “I’m not worth all this. I’m… I don’t deserve it. I’m hard to love. I’m impossible to love. It’s better if you all stop before you’re too attached. I’ll let you down just like I’ve let everyone else down,” he says through his tears, wiping at his cheeks hastily. 

Natasha is quiet for a moment, deep in thought, “Yasha, You may be hard to love, but that doesn’t mean you are unworthy of love. Everyone is hard to love in their own ways. Clint cannot take anything seriously, no matter how important something is to me. Sam psychoanalyzes everyone. He tries to fix everyone he loves. He tries to pick them apart until he understands them. It’s exhausting. Steve is reckless and irrational, and he makes poor decisions. He doesn’t think anything through. He gets hurt. You push everyone away. You lock everyone out because you’re afraid that if you let them in, they will see what you see. We are all hard to love,” She says, each word said simply, her tone even. 

“And what about you?” He asks. Natasha smiles sadly, shaking her head. 

“I… I have worn so many masks that most days, I do not know who I am,” she says simply, “I am cold. I lock my feelings away. It is hard for me to show affection,” She says, shrugging, “My parents sent me to train in Russia when I was 7 years old, and they taught me that love is for children. It has taken me a long time to bury that instinct away. I used to tell that to Clint when we started dating. I used to tell him that he could never compare to my love of dance. My love of winning. I was the best, and I wanted to be the best. Love was a distraction,” she explained, shrugging. 

Bucky nodded slowly, standing and bringing their dishes to the sink, setting them down there, “Nat? How did you get better?” he asks, and she looks surprised. 

“Better how?”

“How did you overcome it all. How did you let Clint love you?” he asked, and Natasha’s gaze softened, fondness tugging the corners of her lips upwards. 

“Well… when I met Clint, I was 21 years old. We kept crossing paths, and he was… funny. And kinder than anyone else I knew. He asked me out, and I told him to ask again the next time he saw me. When our paths crossed again, I said yes,” She began, leaning on Bucky’s counter while he washed the bowls. 

“He took me ice skating. He made a complete fool of himself, the idiot. I told him that night that I wasn’t the type of woman that would be an easy girlfriend. He said that he wasn’t interested in easy, he was interested in me. Four years later, we got married. I had to work on it every day. I had to wake up and remind myself that I wasn’t ruining everything by loving him. It was hard, but he was worth it. It got harder for a while after I got hurt. But it’s better now, and I only have a bad day every once in a while,” She says, shrugging. 

Bucky nods, moving to make himself some tea, “You like tea?” When she nodded, he gestured towards the tea cabinet, letting her pick a bag while he poured their water. 

“Promise me that you’ll at least text Steve tomorrow. He deserves to understand what happened. He thinks he hurt you or something. He thought he ruined everything. He’s devastated,” she says softly, sipping her tea. Bucky nods. 

“I promise. And thank you… for everything,” he says, shaking his head, “Everything gets so dark sometimes. It starts with something small, and then it's like everything unravels until there’s nothing but black and ruins and… I don’t ever know how to put it back together,” he whispers. 

“Well, if you ever need a hand… or a light, I’m here. You’re a good man, James, even if you don’t believe me. So next time you start unraveling, give me a call,” she says, and he nods. 

“Have you been sleeping?” she asks suddenly, and he looks over at her, cheeks pink. 

“I uh… I’ve been sleeping when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. It’s easier that way. I don’t dream when I pass out from exhaustion,” he says, obviously embarrassed by the admission. 

“Well, as soon as I leave, I want you in your bed, okay? Try to sleep tonight. For me,” she instructs, and Bucky nods, gulping down his tea. He can picture her instructing small dancers, correcting their posture, fixing their bad habits. 

“Okay,”

While they finish their tea, she tells him about her day, listing events carefully. When they were done, he washed the mugs, setting them out to dry before turning and smiling at her sheepishly. He had never had anyone come into his darkness and turn on a light. It felt nice. 

“Alright, I have to go make sure my husband hasn’t destroyed our house,” she says warmly, pulling Bucky into a tight hug, “Goodnight, Yasha. I’ll see you in a few days for trivia,” she says, and Bucky knows that there is no question there. She expects to see him there, and if he isn’t, he’ll see her here. 

“Goodnight, Nat. Tell Clint I say hi,” he says, and she nods, patting his cheek gently before collecting her jacket and disappearing into the cold autumn night. 

The next morning, Bucky finds himself standing outside Steve’s apartment. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his soft fleece sweatshirt, and his hair is still in Natasha’s braid. Before he can talk himself out of it, he knocks on the door, holding his breath. 

When Steve opens the door, Bucky frowns. He’s wearing an oversized sweater, his hair matted to his forehead, skin clammy. He looks awful. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, blinking slowly as if he’s afraid that he’s dreamed Bucky up. Bucky nods, reaching out to press the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead. 

“You’re burning up,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “Is it alright if I come in?” Steve nods dumbly, tripping over himself to move out of the way, welcoming Bucky inside. 

“Bucky…”

“Come on, let’s get you on the couch at least,” he says, pulling Steve to the couch and laying him down, wrapping him up in a fleece blanket, “Is there anything I can get you? Water? Medicine?” he asks, and Steve shakes his head. 

Bucky gets up anyway, going into the kitchen and filling up a glass of water. Steve's work is on the counter, and Bucky lingers, looking over the work. It's him, obviously. 

The character looks lethal, Bucky's broad shoulders made to look broadernin a black tact suit, his silver arm glibting. He's holding a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. But the art is stunning. Most of his face is obscured by a mask, but he feels seen. 

He pulls away slowly, walking back over to Steve. 

“You look like shit,” Steve finally says, and Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. 

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Stevie,” he says, patting the blond’s shoulder, “But uh… I’m sorry. I owe you more than that, but…” he shakes his head, letting out a watery chuckle. 

“Are you okay? You just disappeared. I tried to call. I came by your apartment…” he says, and Bucky shook his head. 

“I uh… I fucked up, Steve. I got scared and bad and I didn’t know how to ask for help, so I hid away. And that isn’t fair to you or anyone else. I made a mistake, and I’m so sorry that I worried you, Steve. I’m so sorry for everything,” he says, and Steve is still just staring at him in awe. 

“It’s okay, I was just worried. Did I… did I do something wrong?” he asks, looking down at his hands. 

“No. Absolutely not. You didn’t do anything wrong, Steve. You were perfect. I just… I have a lot of issues,” he said, chuckling bitterly, “I hurt people, Steve. I always have. I’m bad at having relationships. I’m bad at letting people in,” he offers, “And I know that isn’t an excuse, and I need to be better, but…”

“It’s okay,” Steve says seriously, and Bucky lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. 

“It isn’t okay, Steve. It isn’t. It’s bad. I need to do better,” 

“I understand though,” Steve tries, but Bucky just shakes his head, swallowing thickly. 

“You don’t understand. No one does because no one’s heard the whole story,” he explains, swallowing thickly, “Can I try? To tell you? I might not be able to get through it all, but I think you deserve to understand,” 

Steve nods, reaching over to take Bucky’s left hand in his own, squeezing gently. He doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently. 

“After the accident,” Bucky began, squeezing Steve’s hand lightly, “I was in and out of the hospital for a while. I had a lot of injuries, and then after the prosthetic was put in, I had a lot of physical therapy. I took a year off between high school and college to heal up. That’s when I started writing my book,” he said, knowing that Steve already knew all of this. 

“But uh… I wasn’t ever really the same again. I was a happy kid. I was always smiling and laughing, and I wanted to be around people all the time. I wanted to make people happy. After the accident… I didn’t want to see anyone. I locked myself in my room and I wrote. My mom was worried, but I was doing fine and everything, and she was taking care of the girls and working and grieving… I couldn’t add anything to that, y’know. So I just moped around and wrote and tried not to cause any problems,” he smiled weakly at Steve. 

“She wouldn’t have been upset if you had told her,” Steve said, and Bucky laughed, hushing him. 

“Let me tell my story,” he chided, “So then I moved to Chicago. And I didn’t really make many friends. I just kept my head down, passed my classes, kept writing my book. But… I was getting worse. I was having panic attacks like five times a week. I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t eating,” he shrugs, “It kept getting worse, but I just kept going. I got my degrees. I published my book,” he says, and Steve nods, rubbing small circles on Bucky’s hand. 

“And then I was a commodity,” Bucky laughs angrily, shaking his head, “And I couldn’t deal with that. No one in my life saw me as person. I was fucking  screaming , and no one was listening. I was drinking… and smoking pot… I was just trying to make everything stop,” Bucky’s voice was growing tighter, and he was clenching his flesh hand. 

“One night, I got really drunk, and someone pulled me off the side of a bridge. I was on the side, hanging over the water… it wasn’t high enough for me to have gotten hurt, but I gave that man a scare,” Bucky says, trying to keep his tone light and failing. 

“But I just kept getting worse. I was so scared and angry and no one could see me. I used a full bottle of bourbon to wash down half a bottle of antidepressants,” 

The words hang heavy in front of him, and Steve has tears in his eyes. 

“I woke up in the hospital a few days later. I should have died, they all said. I was lucky,” he said, voice quieter now, “I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like I couldn’t even die right,” 

“Buck-”

“I was in an inpatient and rehabilitation facility for ten months. And then I moved here,” he finishes, and Steve pulls Bucky to his chest, squeezing him tightly as if he’s trying to make sure that Bucky is still there. 

“God, Buck… I knew you had been through a lot but…”

“But you didn’t know I tried to kill myself? Yeah, I don’t typically start conversations with that,” he said, raising his eyebrows and smirking, shaking his head, “Yeah, so about a year ago… not my best time,” 

“A year ago? Is that what made you-”

“It probably didn’t help,” Bucky cuts him off, “But I just… I panicked, I think. I’ve been so happy these last couple months. I didn’t feel like I deserved it,” he explained, shaking his head, “which is stupid, I know,” 

“It is stupid. You’re so dumb,” Steve said, shaking his head and wiping his cheeks, “God, I should have broke down your fucking door,” he said, eyes darkening. 

“I was fine. I am fine. I’ll… be fine, eventually,” he explains, sighing, “Nat came by last night, put me back together… I knew I had to come make sure you were alright,” he explained, smiling sadly, “I’m sorry. I’m working on it. I’m healing, but Maria says that healing isn’t linear. She says that I’m going to have relapses in my negative thought patterns, and I just have to learn how to work through them. And I got through it. That’s what’s really important. I’m here,” 

“Yeah, you are. And I’m not letting you go anywhere, jerk,” Steve says, pulling Bucky in for a bone crushing hug, “Thank you. For trusting me. I know that had to be hard,” 

Bucky sighs, melting into Steve’s embrace, hiding his face in the crook of the bigger man’s neck. 

“Next time you pull some shit like that, I’m breaking down the door and never letting you go, you hear me?” Steve said sternly, rubbing at Bucky’s spine. He just nodded, laughing in disbelief. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, and Steve tensed. 

“Well you have me. Get over it,” he said, but his voice was gentle, “And I’m not going anywhere, Buck. You’re stuck with me now,” he added, and Bucky nodded, sniffling. 

“You’re sick. I should be comforting you,” he protested quietly, and Steve laughed, smiling. 

“You are comforting me. Just let me hold you,” he said, and Bucky pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, smiling softly. 

“Okay, Steve. C’mon, let’s lay down,” He said, pulling him so that they were both lying flat on the couch, Bucky half on top of Steve so that they would both fit. 

“Don’t let go,” Steve said, sounding anxious, and Bucky nodded, laying his head over Steve’s chest. 

“I’m not. I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Depressive episode (Bucky isn't taking care of himself)  
Here comes the suicidal ideation  
Also mentions of drugs and alcohol and also a bridge  
Steve is wonderful  
Bucky is a dumpster fire who means well.


	9. I don't Want Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings below

When Bucky finally gets the courage to call Maria, there’s a Brooklyn sized lump in his throat. 

“James,” the word is clipped, and he sighs, looking anywhere except the screen, not wanting to see her expression. 

“Hi, Maria,” 

“So. It’s been a few days,” she starts casually, and Bucky sighs, nodding. 

“I’m sorry. I know I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I’m working on it. I reached out to all of my friends. I made sure that they know I’m alive. I didn’t do anything too self-destructive. Nothing above my normal bullshit,” he says, finally looking at the screen. 

“Okay,” is all she says, staring back at him expectantly. 

“Okay?”

“Okay. I can’t do the work for you, Bucky. You have to do it yourself. You have to want it,” 

“I do. I do want it,” he argues, feeling invisible. 

“Do you? It doesn’t seem like it,” she argues, and he sighs, clenching his jaw. 

“I do. I want to get better. I  _ am  _ getting better,” 

“I’m going to email you something. I want you to read it,” she says suddenly, and an email comes in, “Out loud, please,” 

He opens the email and takes a measured breath before speaking, “Today is November 9th, 2018, and I think I’ve been drowning for years. I don’t remember what breathing feels like. I only remember fire and bone dust and broken glass. Most days, I think it would be better if I had died years ago. I’m living on borrowed time, and sooner or later, that’ll catch up to me,” he says, voice quiet. It’s hard for him to continue. 

“I don’t know if other people feel this way. I don’t know if other people wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat with the gnawing feeling that someday they will die by their own hand. I do. Most nights. I haven’t slept properly in months. I don’t know how to do this. I want to go home, but no such place exists,” his voice cracks. He sucks in a shaky breath before finishing. 

“I’ve done so many things. Horrible, wretched things. I hope someday I will be able to say that I have also done beautiful things. Kind things. I hope that if I live long enough, I can touch someone’s heart. Me, Bucky. Not James Barnes. He never really existed anyway,” 

The air in his bedroom feels thick like he’s moving through toffee. He clicks out of the email, crossing his arms. 

“So?” 

Bucky stares at her blankly, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond to that. 

“So?”

“So, how do you feel?” she asks, and he shrugs. 

“I don’t know how I feel. That’s the problem,” he says, and she shakes her head. 

“I remember the day you wrote that. It was our first session. You were on suicide watch, and you wouldn’t talk to me. I handed you a notebook and a pen. That’s what you wrote. Have your opinions changed at all?” 

“I still don’t sleep most nights,” he begins, “Nights are the hardest. But I think… I think I may have been breathing. I think I may have touched someone’s heart, and I think… I think I might have a home again,” he explains. 

Maria nods, keeping quiet. 

“But the thing is… I still don’t feel like I deserve it. I’ve done so many bad things… he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves warmth and kindness and courage. He’s so brave,” 

“Maybe you should be brave with him,” Maria offers. 

“I don’t know how to be brave,” he argues. Maria laughs, shaking her head. 

“Bucky, you’re an idiot if you think that’s true. You wanted to die. You tried to kill yourself, and here you are, a year later. Every day, you wake up and you keep going no matter how difficult it feels. That’s the bravest thing a person can do,” 

Bucky stares at her for a while, unblinking. 

“You have some new therapy homework. I’m adding to your list,” she says, and Bucky nods, waiting. 

“Tell him how you feel. I think it’ll do you some good,” 

There’s something about Brooklyn in mid-Autumn. There are no leaves, only passing faces and the typical noise of a bustling city. Bucky Barnes stares at his gloved hands while he walks down the street, words swirling around his busy brain. He’s going to tell Steve. He wants to tell Steve. He needs to tell Steve. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. His metal arm is frigid where it’s set to his shoulder, and he wants to be inside. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just walking down the street, feeling surprisingly full. 

“I am Bucky Barnes, and I want to do kind, beautiful things,” He reminds himself, pausing when he notices where he is. He’s standing outside the Briar Patch. 

Of course, when he walks without destination, he finds his way to Steve. 

He goes inside the store, choosing instead to surround himself with words. He wanders the stacks, trailing his fingers against the spines. 

“Can I help you with something, Mister?” he hears from behind, and he turns slowly, shaking his head. 

“Nah, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for,” he says, and the truth of his words feels like a sinking ship. 

“Well, if you want any recommendations, everyone who works here does a monthly recommendation. They’re up at the front of the store, and we even write little blurbs about why we like them so much. I’m Peter, by the way, you been in before?” 

Bucky vaguely remembers Steve mentioning the bright-eyed college student. 

“Yeah. I’ve been in before. Thanks for the help, Peter,” He says softly, and the younger man just grins, walking back towards the front of the store. 

Bucky decides to follow him, wandering over to the wall where employee recommendations are, scanning over the titles. 

Peter recommends  _ The Giver _ by Lois Loudry, and Bucky smiles, picking it up and reading the young man’s words. His hand-writing is messy, large letters. 

“The Giver’s a classic. Nice choice,” he calls over his shoulder, and he hears Peter chuckle. 

“Yeah, I haven’t been doing a lot of reading lately. School is kicking my ass. You wouldn’t happen to understand organic chemistry, would you?” Bucky barks out a laugh, turning to watch Peter work. 

“No. Definitely not. I was an English major. I haven’t taken a science class since I was 20,” he explains, and Peter nods. 

“Well, Steve, I don’t know if you’ve met Steve. He usually has killer recommendations. He likes to read. They’re all really fun or touching. He has good taste,” Peter says, and Bucky’s expression softens. 

“Yeah. I know Steve. He gave me a few recommendations, actually. They were really good,” he says, and Peter nods, his attention being pulled away when a new customer enters. 

Bucky turns back to the wall, looking at the other books. Wanda recommends  _ Genuine Fraud _ by E. Lockhart. Nick recommends  _ The Maltese Falcon  _ by Dashiell Hammett. Jessica recommends Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. MJ recommends Ray Bradbury’s  _ Something Wicked This Way Comes _ .

And Steve recommends  _ Escaping Peace  _ by James Buchanan Barnes. 

He stares for a minute, the air sucked out of his lungs. He reaches up with a shaking hand, pulling down the blurb, holding it close to his face. 

_ Escaping Peace has been called the best book of the 21st century. I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know that this book is one of the best pieces of literature that I have ever read. It is haunting, beautiful, and inspiring. If you’re looking for a thoughtful, introspective look at life in modern America, this one’s for you. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. And you’ll walk away wondering how James perfectly captured the bittersweet nostalgia that we all live with from day-to-day. Do yourself a favor and pick it up.  _

_ Notable Quote: “Reach out with your own broken hands and press I love yous into the soft of my chest hard enough to puncture lungs or break ribs” _

Bucky blinks away tears, setting the card back on the shelf and walking as quickly as he can out the door, all but running the few blocks back to his apartment, not slowing until his back is pressed against his front door, tears falling from his red-rimmed eyes. 

After catching his breathing, he storms into the bedroom, dragging a still-closed box from under the bed, ripping through the tape and pulling out a book, jotting down a few words in the front cover, standing again and leaving as quickly as he came. 

When Steve opens the door, Bucky shoves the book into his hands, eyes wild. 

“Buck? What’re you doing here?” He asks, “Have you been crying? Jesus, Buck,” his words are gentle, and Bucky nods. 

“Yeah. It’s for you,” he says, gesturing to the book. 

And Steve looks down then, stilling when he sees the original copy in his hands. 

“It’s an advance copy. They gave me ten. I still have most of them,” he explains, shrugging, “I didn’t really have anyone to give them to. I gave one to my Ma and one to each of the girls,” He rambles, squeezing his eyes shut. He wishes more than anything that he was better with words, “I want you to have it,” he adds. 

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says quietly, opening the front cover and sucking in a breath, blinking slowly before reading the scribbled note. 

_ “Reach out with your own broken hands and press I love yous into the soft of my chest hard enough to puncture lungs or break ribs. _

_ I gave this heart away a long time ago, and it is easier to carve one out of marble than it is to go ask for mine back.” _

_ I don’t know how to write beautiful words anymore. I don’t know how to do much of anything. When I was in the hospital, I wrote that someday I want to do beautiful things. Kind things. I want to touch someone’s heart.  _

_ I want to touch someone’s heart the way that you’ve touched mine, Steve.  _

_ I want to change your life the way that you’ve changed mine.  _

_ All my Love,  _

_ Bucky  _

When Steve looks up, there are tears in his eyes too. He lets out a wet chuckle, a disbelieving look on his face. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve read this wrong. I’m not very good with people. But when I look at you, I see the person that I want to grow into. And I see the way your eyes soften when you look at me. I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve. I’m not going to be easy to love. I never have been. But I want to try. With you. If you’ll have me,” 

After Bucky has word vomited, he stares with wide eyes, waiting for Steve to say something. 

Instead, Steve dives forward, pressing his lips against Bucky’s fervently. It isn’t a good kiss; It’s messy and insistent and nervous. But they both think it’s perfect. Steve’s free hand cups Bucky’s jaw, and both of Bucky’s hands have settled on Steve’s hips. 

When they pull back, Steve lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. 

“I don’t want easy, you dipshit. I want you. And I want everything that entails. I want the ugly parts and the messy parts and the reckless parts. You are worth everything, okay? You’re unbelievable,” he says, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s, closing his eyes. 

“You’re stupider than I thought,” Bucky counters, and Stevenudges him in the ribs with his elbow. 

“Maybe, but at least I’m not a jerk,” he says, but there’s no heat behind the words. 

“Punk,” Steve whispers back fondly, dipping to press a chaste kiss to his lips, “Come on. You interrupted my work, but I don’t think I’ll be able to focus now. Let me make you some lunch,” Steve adds, threading their fingers together and pulling him inside the apartment. 

Bucky laughs, reaching his left hand up to wipe away his tears, following Steve to the couch. Steve rambles softly, cleaning up the living room and turning on the TV, pausing occasionally to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple or his cheek or the crown of his head. 

In the corner of the room, there’s a painting of Bucky, leaning against the wall. He looks peaceful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> suicidal ideation  
therapy session  
the idiot figures himself out


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr: [AllTheStupid](https://allthestupid.tumblr.com/)

It’s been a little over a month since Bucky and Steve stopped dancing around each other and finally settled into a routine together. They still go to trivia on Tuesdays and after-work drinks on Thursdays. Bucky still has sessions twice a week, and most nights, he still has nightmares. Maria says they might never go away. 

But he wakes up in the mornings and most days, he smiles. 

“James Buchanan and Steven Grant, you better not be riding that motorcycle home tonight. The ice’ll kill you both,” Winnie chastizes, and Steve laughs while Bucky dips to press a kiss to her cheek.

“We took a cab, Ma. Don’t worry. I don’t plan on letting anyone die tonight,” he assures his mother, pulling on a scarf and winking at his younger sisters. 

Becca walks over slowly, pulling both men in for a hug. 

“You better not die, BuckyBear. We have lunch plans for Wednesday,” she reminds, and Steve’s eyes twinkle in the hall light. 

“I know, I know. And we’ll be there on time and everything, I promise,” Bucky says tp his sister. 

Each Barnes woman steps forward to say their goodbyes, and Bucky squeezes May Grace’s shoulder. 

“I love you all. Merry Christmas,” he says, and Steve wraps an arm around his waist. 

“Thank you for letting me crash your holidays,” Steve says graciously and Winnie swats at his shoulders.

“No, no. You’re part of the family now. Get home safe. Both of you,” She says, and the two men walk out into the cold air. Their ride back home is quiet, and Bucky keeps squeezing at Steve’s hand absent-mindedly.

“I have a present for you,” Steve says against the soft skin of Bucky’s neck once they’re safely inside Bucky’s apartment, smiling widely before pressing a tender kiss to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. 

“Oh… Why?” Bucky asks, scrunching his nose up. 

Steve laughs, getting up and going to grab a bag, setting it down on Bucky’s lap, “Go on. Open it,” he prompts, waiting impatiently. 

Bucky grumbles under his breath, pulling out the gifts methodically. 

The first is a coffee mug with a typewriter on the front with Write On printed beneath it. He glances over at Steve with raised eyebrows before pulling out a leather notebook, flipping through the empty pages. 

“No pressure or anything, but I thought it might help to start fresh with something new,” he explains, “I think I’d like a new sketchbook if I were starting a new chapter of my life,” 

Bucky sets the items aside, leaning in to kiss Steve slowly, smiling against his lips. 

“Thanks, baby,” he whispers, nuzzling their noses together. 

“Anything for you,” Steve whispers back, laying down. 

They lay there wrapped up in each other, turning on a TV show. Steve is asleep soon after, curled into Bucky’s chest, snoring lightly. 

Bucky smiles down at the younger man fondly, petting at his hair. After a few minutes, he bites his lip, reaching over to grab the notebook, opening it up and pulling a pen out of the side table. 

And for the first time in a year and a half, he writes with the man he loves tucked against his side. 

_ I know too, Van Gogh, what yellow tastes like on my tongue. I have stared at too many voids, clawed restlessly at the canvas, willing it to be a mirror. Time is funny like that, and the days swirl past like acrylic paint, textured and restless. I bask in the paint fumes, and with steady breaths, I await the future by his side.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. This fic holds such a special place in my heart! 
> 
> Comments are my lifeblood
> 
> [come be my tumblr friend](https://allthestupid.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Implied alcoholism (Winnifred accuses Bucky of being an alcoholic. He isn't).  
Panic Attack and grounding exercise.  
Therapy Session in which they talk about alcohol


End file.
